


Lions and Serpents and Snowboarders, Oh My!

by RuArcher (Coriesocks)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bisexual Male Character, Coming Out, Community: hp_drizzle, Drinking, Drunken Shenanigans, Family Dynamics, Forced Proximity, Friends to Lovers, HP Drizzle Fest 2019, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, Hot Tub, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Albus Severus Potter, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, POV Multiple, POV Scorpius Malfoy, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pining, References to canon Cursed Child events, Sharing a Bed, Skiing, Snow, Snowboarding, brief mention of substance abuse, chairlifts, draco's not a fan of snowboarding, mention of canon character death, mention of divorce, misuse of a hot tub, poor hot tub etiquette, sibling dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-20 11:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher
Summary: What happens when the Potter men invite the Malfoys on a family skiing holiday to Fleur's family chalet? As it turns out, all sorts of things. There are late night confessions, malfunctioning ski lifts, far too muchvin chaud…And then there’s the unfortunate incident involving two naked teenagers, and the even more unbearable reciprocity that comes from your children having no boundaries and your new lover not locking the fucking door. Oh, and there's also some snowboarding.





	1. Are you keeping up, or are you falling down?

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the mods for organising another brilliant round of Drizzle fest and for being super generous with extensions *sheepish smile* And immense thanks to my small team of betas and cheerleaders who helped kick this into shape. Kisses all round!
> 
> **Disclaimer: **Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the song Pensacola by Banner Pilot

_ALBUS_

Albus shouldered his way through the press of students in the narrow train corridor, pausing when he reached the door, his chest tightening as he scanned the crowds. The comforting pressure of Scorpius’s hand around his wrist currently the only thing preventing him from hiding in a quiet corner until the train headed back to Hogwarts. The platform, as expected, was heaving. Parents, siblings, and assorted family members huddled together in loose groups, each one talking louder than the next, and Albus fought the urge to cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. He knew rationally they weren’t looking at him, knew they couldn’t really care less about him, but it didn’t feel like that when every head was turned towards the train, eyes eager and wide as they sought out sons, daughters, nieces, nephews. 

Students poured onto the platform adding their weight to the milling crowd; the younger ones struggling with trunks while older ones smugly levitated their luggage behind them. Everywhere he looked people were hugging, arms wrapped tightly around backs or loosely slung across shoulders for a more restrained—but still unnecessarily tactile—back pat. Albus grimaced and pondered how he was going to force his way through the masses. For some reason, the platform felt even busier than usual. Maybe it was because it was cold and wet in London and everyone was wearing thick, winter cloaks. Or maybe it was because he was looking forward to coming home even less than usual. He would have happily stayed at Hogwarts with his stash of graphic novels and constant access to the kitchens (one of the few perks of being a Potter), but his dad had insisted he come home, and with Scorpius not staying at Hogwarts either, Albus had lacked the will to put up anything more than token resistance before giving in. Would his dad go for the suffocating, full-body embrace? Or would Albus get away with an awkward handshake?

He grunted as a couple of Hufflepuffs shoved past him, muttering something particularly un-puff like as they did. Everyone thought Hufflepuffs were soft, but Albus wasn’t fooled. He’d been on the receiving end of enough Jelly Legs jinxes to know that those badgers could be just as vicious as everyone else, it was only because they smiled more as they did it that people assumed them to be so soft-hearted and kind. They were probably high the whole time; even Albus had heard the rumours about what went on in their common room. _Herbologists, my arse,_ he thought. Begrudgingly, he stepped down onto the platform to stop clogging up the exit, body heavy and uncooperative, and tried to pinpoint were his dad was standing. Why was everyone so fucking tall?

“Oh! Over there, I see him!” Scorpius said tapping him on the arm and pointing off to the left somewhere. Albus could feel him bouncing on the balls of his feet, only the barest sliver of space between them, his hand lingering on Albus’s shoulder. Scorpius didn’t have the same problem with crowds as he did, but then, he was tall enough that he only had to stretch up a little bit to see over the sea of people. Albus, on the other hand, was still waiting for the traditional Weasley growth spurt his mum assured him would kick in any day now. Apparently, Uncle Charlie was a short-arse (by Weasley standards) until seventh year, and then he’d shot up, or so Albus was repeatedly reminded. He wondered how long they’d keep banging on about it. Would it finally fizzle out this year? Or would they keep going on (and on and on) about it until he left Hogwarts and they could no longer blithely pretend he was going to catch up with James? It was clearly just going to be another way he’d metaphorically be kicked in the balls by Potter genetics. _Thanks, Dad._

Speaking of. He craned his neck to look in the direction Scorpius was indicating, and there, stood off to the side, was his dad. He was doing that thing where he stuffed his hands in his pockets and kind of hunched over himself like he didn’t want people to notice him. Not an easy task with his level of notoriety. Especially here. Especially now. Albus felt a twinge of sympathy as he took in his dad’s appearance. Ratty old jeans; a stripy knitted jumper which he _had_ to have borrowed (or pinched) from Uncle Ron because it was about two sizes too large; several days’ growth of greying stubble covering his cheeks; hair that looked like it hadn’t so much as glanced at a brush since Albus had last seen him, sticking out from his head in wild tufts that looked all the more unkempt thanks to the grey streaking through it. All in all, it screamed of someone who wasn’t looking after themselves properly. Albus wondered if his dad perhaps wasn’t coping with the divorce as well as his mum seemed to be, and he was momentarily struck by sadness at the thought of his dad rattling around in Grimmauld Place all alone. Shit. Now he felt guilty for ‘forgetting’ to reply to so many of his owls. But he’d seemed fine over the summer (when he’d been surrounded by his kids, Albus’s mind unhelpfully supplied), so really, it wasn’t _his_ fault his dad was looking a bit lost. He should have said something!

Lily was still nowhere to be seen. He’d expected to see her already at his dad’s side, talking his ear off about Puffskeins or Quidditch or whatever her latest obsession was, but she was undoubtedly still saying goodbye to her hundreds of friends; the lot of them hugging and crying like the world was ending. Bloody ridiculous. He wasn’t at all surprised to notice James hadn’t bothered to show up, despite saying in his last letter that he would. He was probably busy watching TV in his pants and eating Doritos by the fistful, or whatever it was pro-Quidditch players did in their downtime.

“Come on, Al,” Scorpius urged, tugging at his sleeve. “I want to double-check with your dad that it’s still okay for me to come over after Christmas.”

Albus rolled his eyes, but it was a fond sort of eye roll, not the exasperated one he saved for the rest of the idiots he was continually forced to interact with. “He’s not going to have changed his mind since the last time you double-checked, although he might if you keep pestering him.” 

Scorpius looked at him like he’d just drowned a kitten and Albus winced. Why did he always say things like that?

“Really?” Scorpius squeaked, clutching his hand to his mouth. “Oh, Merlin. You don’t think I’ve annoyed him already do you? This does _not_ bode well for a stress free yuletide. What if he changes his mind? What about our… you know, our _plans?_”

Yeah, he really shouldn’t have said that, knowing how anxious Scorpius already was about staying over, about how their news would be taken. He hastily backtracked. “Look, don’t worry about it. He loves you. More than he loves me, anyway.”

The tension dropped from Scorpius’s shoulders as suddenly as it had appeared, and Albus relaxed in turn, inordinately pleased with himself for being able to restore Scorpius’s sunny smile. But then the smile morphed into a smirk, and a teasing spark danced in Scorpius’s eye. “That’s hardly difficult, you realise.”

“What? Hey!” 

“Really, Albus. You walked right into that one.” Scorpius patted him on the head—an action that would result in a swift, sharp hex to the knee if it had been anyone else—and then looked up, scanning the platform briefly before zeroing in on their target. “Right, let’s go,” he announced, chivying Albus forwards.

His dad’s face lit up as soon as he spotted them emerging through the crowd, although there was something off about him, like he was… nervous? Anxious? Albus couldn’t put his finger on it, and it stung a little, knowing that his dad clearly still felt uncomfortable around him. He put it down to general divorce-induced malaise and fixed a smile to his face as he accepted his dad’s awkward greeting and then suffered an even more awkward hug. So much for getting away with a handshake. 

“Hi, Mr Potter,” Scorpius beamed, waving frantically until Albus grabbed his arm to still it.

“Hi, Scorpius. How are you?”

“Good! Exceptional! Never better!” 

His dad smiled, clearly bemused by Scorpius’s enthusiasm. “Okay… great. That’s… great.”

“And you?” Scorpius continued. “Are you and— I mean, just ‘you’, no ‘and’, of course. Oh, Merlin.” Scorpius’s eyes briefly flickered shut and he breathed in sharply through his nose. “I’m so sorry. Are you— are you well? Not that you don’t look well, I just—” Albus finally took pity on him and nudged him in the side, breaking Scorpius out of the anxious politeness-loop he’d got himself stuck in.

His dad mumbled a response, but Albus could tell his attention had already shifted elsewhere, his eyes darting around the crowded platform. He was probably eager for Lily to turn up. Albus sighed, chewing his bottom lip. What now? Were they just supposed to stand here in arse-clenchingly awkward silence? Fuck. Why hadn’t he stayed at school? Even Hogwarts without Scorpius would be better than this. He glanced at Scorpius, but he was staring up at the vaulted ceiling, his face a picture of mortification, and Albus longed to reassure him some way. But he couldn’t. Not yet. That wasn’t part of the plan… but soon. Definitely soon. 

Albus’s attention was drawn back to his dad when he cleared his throat. “So, um, Scorpius, is your dad coming to pick you up?”

“Er, yes, why?” Scorpius replied, looking panicked. “Did he owl you? Has something happened?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Albus watched through narrowed eyes as his dad huffed out a faint laugh and raked a hand through his hair. Why did he look so shifty? What in Merlin’s name was going on? “I… um. I was just looking for him—I’ve been meaning to have a word about… something—but I can’t see him.”

“Oh!” Scorpius visibly sagged, his relief palpable. “Well, he owled this morning to let me know he might get caught up with work and thus be a little late meeting me. So, I’m to go to speak to Miss Abbott at the Leaky and Floo home from there if he’s not here by quarter past. He okay’d it with both Head Mistress McGonagall _and_ Miss Abbott so it’s all completely fine.”

“Ah, right. Did he say anything else?” 

“Um, well. He said the Robbins collection was more involved than he had anticipated, he mentioned that Felicity—our house elf—would prepare me a snack if I was hungry… um. Oh, and he said he bought a new quilt cover for my bed, but that I was free to return it if I didn’t like the colour. I think that was all?”

“Scorp,” Albus hissed, watching the smile on his dad’s face falter as Scorpius rambled.

“Oh, sorry. Again.” Scorpius whipped his gaze to his feet, a blush staining his cheeks.

“It’s fine. I suppose my question was a little… ambiguous.” Albus’s dad waved a hand dismissively. “I just meant. Well. We had something to share with you boys. I was hoping he’d be here too but I guess it can’t be helped. Would have been nice if he could have let me know, though.” 

_We?_ Albus shared a look with Scorpius. As far as he knew, their dads were still barely civil with one another, and there’d been no indication in any of his dad’s—or Mr Malfoy’s—letters this past term that hinted at any thawing of their coldly polite relationship. What had been going on? Had something happened? Albus groaned under his breath and willed Lily to show up soon so they could put an end to his dad’s weirdness. He really, _really_ just wanted to get home, shut himself away in his bedroom, and maybe play a few hours of the latest Dragon Age (provided James hadn’t nicked it).

“What’s going on, Mr Potter?” Scorpius enquired, his voice quiet, worried, an edge of fear. Albus shifted minutely closer, bringing their arms into contact. It was as open with affection as he was prepared to be in public, and it wasn’t much, but Scorpius’s lips twitched up in a grateful smile that warmed him throughout. _Soon._

“Harry, please.” Scorpius nodded tightly. “So, anyway, I was hoping Draco would be here for this too, but… I know you boys were looking forward to spending a few days together at Grimmauld Place after Christmas, but there’s been a slight change of plan because we’re going to be going away—”

“What? Dad!” Albus cried, filled with indignant rage. He could hear Scorpius spluttering beside him and fought the urge to grab his hand. “You promised! You can’t do this! You can’t just—”

“Calm down, boys,” his dad took a step back and held up his hands as if Albus were a skittish wild animal that needed soothing. But Albus didn’t think there was anything his dad could say that would make him calm right now. He’d been looking forward to Scorpius’s visit for weeks—they had _plans._ They were going to tell everyone. Had his dad found out? Was this his way of getting back at him for not writing enough last term? “If you’ll let me finish,” his dad said, glaring pointedly at Albus. 

Albus glowered. He wouldn’t forget this. He— 

“As I was about to say, Mr Malfoy—sorry, _Draco_—and I have been talking recently and we think… well, we’ve decided it would be a good idea if we could put aside our differences and make more of an effort to be friendly towards each other. I mean, since you boys are such good friends, it seems silly to still be so… uh, stuck in the past. We’re clearly not getting away from each other!” He laughed, but it trailed off at Albus’s glare. “So, yeah… in order to, uh… encourage this new friendship, Scorpius and Draco will be joining us on a family skiing holiday. In France. After Christmas.” 

Albus blinked. Of all the things he expected his dad to say, he would not have predicted that in a million years. His dad and Mr Malfoy voluntarily spending time together? On holiday? What the fuck…

“Excuse me, I think I misunderstood. I thought you said Father and I would be joining you on your family holiday. But…”

“No, that’s right. You, Draco, Albus, James, Lily, Rose, Hugo, and Louis. And me, obviously. Fleur—you know, Albus’s aunt?—is very kindly letting us stay in the Delacour chalet in Courchevel. It’s ski-in-ski-out, has a live-in house-elf, and it’s protected by so many layers of charms I’m slightly worried we’ll struggle to find it, but at least we won’t get disturbed by any stray cross-country skiers or crushed by an avalanche.”

Scorpius tittered slightly hysterically, his respect for Albus’s dad warring with his disbelief, and Albus didn’t blame him. He wasn’t quite sure what to think either, because on the one hand, it sounded too good to be true, but on the other, being stuck in a chalet with his dad and Mr Malfoy sounded like a recipe for disaster. Not to mention it sort of ruined their grand plan for the holidays, but he supposed that was something they could tackle if they survived a week with their dads. It wasn’t like there was any great need to come clean about their little secret…and a week in a chalet with Scorpius sounded rather nice now he thought about it. There was no rule that said they absolutely had to go skiing. They could cuddle by the fire while everyone else got cold and bruised. They could even share a room—a room to themselves with no snoring roommates or annoying big brothers… Albus was beginning to think the holiday could be quite a lot of fun.

“Ah, there you are Scorpius. I thought I might have missed you.” 

Albus almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of Mr Malfoy’s voice right behind him. It was a minor relief to see his dad looked similarly startled.

“Father!” Scorpius leapt forward for a hug but seemed to change his mind halfway through and settled on a handshake instead, which meant he ended up just kind of punching Mr Malfoy in the stomach, while Mr Malfoy patted him on the back. “Sorry!” he squeaked, stepping back. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Mr Malfoy asked, smoothing a hand down the front of his robes. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Albus’s dad, who, Albus was surprised to note, hastily looked away.

“The skiing holiday!” Scorpius was practically quivering with excitement, gaze bouncing between their dads as he struggled to keep a lid on everything. Albus, for his part, held his breath, watching intently for any sign that this was all an elaborate lie.

“Ah. I see you’ve already informed the boys, despite agreeing we’d do it together.” Mr Malfoy’s lips were pressed in a firm line and Albus couldn’t tell if that meant he was pissed off or not. 

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I wasn’t sure if you’d be turning up and it just kind of slipped out…” his dad mumbled, looking like he’d swallowed something too big and was trying to work out whether to keep going and risk choking or spit it out and risk public embarrassment. 

“So it’s true, then?” Scorpius asked, eyes wide as he turned to Mr Malfoy.

“What’s true?” Lily asked, a Sugar Quill dangling from her mouth as she looked suspiciously between them all. How long had she been standing there?

“Dad’s taking us to Auntie Fleur’s chalet after Christmas and Scorp and Mr Malfoy are coming too,” Albus replied when no one else spoke up, feeling a tingle of satisfaction at the outrage that blossomed on his little sister’s face.

Lily rounded on their dad. “What? How is that fair? Can I bring a friend too? You don’t even like Mr Malfoy—” 

_“Lily!_ That’s enough.”

Albus smiled smugly as Lily continued to whine about the unfairness of her life. He supposed it _was_ a little unfair, but for once, it was tipped in his favour and he intended to enjoy every minute. He half-expected his dad to cave and let Lily invite half her house, but surprisingly, he wouldn’t budge. When she broke for air, with a pout and a glare that looked like it could melt the tiles beneath their feet, Mr Malfoy bid them goodbye and guided Scorpius towards the exit. Scorpius’s promise to owl as soon as he got home hung in Albus’s ears as he watched them leave, wishing he could have given Scorpius a proper goodbye, instead of the rather wooden hug they’d shared before his dad dragged them away. He tuned Lily’s grumbling out and sunk into thoughts of hot tubs and Scorpius and cuddling in front of a roaring fire.

*

_Dear Albus,_

_I still can’t quite believe we’re going on holiday together — skiing!! — but Father assures me it’s true. I’m so excited I can barely sit still—what does one pack for a skiing holiday? Father showed me some photos of the chalet your dad sent to him and it looks AMAZING!_  
_I’ve one worry… well, that’s a lie. I have several worries. Constantly. But one is more pressing at this present time… What about our plan? Are we still going to do it? Should we do it before we go?  
Merry Christmas etc etc_

_All my love,  
Scorpius_

*

_Scorp,_

_I know, I can’t believe it either. Lily hasn’t shut up about how unfair it is, but if you ask me, dad’s right to not let her bring any friends— who wants to be stuck in a chalet with a bunch of 14 yr old girls?? She’s got Hugo and Rose to hang out with so I don’t know why she’s complaining._  
_I think maybe it’s best we push back the plan. Dad’s never going to let us share a room if he knows. And I think we should work out what’s going on between our dads before we do anything rash… No offence to your dad, but I think mine has lost his mind a little since he and mum split. He’s acting weirder than usual and I don’t want him to flip out again and ban us from hanging out or… You know. Other stuff._  
_So, anyway, is it such a big deal if we just leave it ‘til next holidays? Or maybe we can just write them a letter after we get back to school? Face-to-face confessions are vastly overrated if you ask me._  
_Love, Albus xxx_

*

Albus read over what he wrote and imagined Scorpius’s reaction to his words. He knew it was kind of shitty to ask Scorpius to push back their big reveal; Scorpius hated lying to his dad—even a simple lie of omission—and he’d been so keen for them to at least tell their families this Christmas, but… Albus wasn’t quite there, yet. He’d do it if he had to, for Scorpius, but he just knew that as soon as his family found out about them they’d try and _involve_ themselves, because that’s just what his family did. They poked and prodded and asked deep, searching questions until they knew more about a person than they did themselves, and Albus very definitely did _not_ want that sort of intrusion into what he and Scorpius had. Or anything in his life, for that matter.

Regarding the letter again, Albus added a quick note at the bottom to soften the tone. Hopefully, Scorpius wouldn’t be too disappointed to have to keep the secret a while longer.

_P.S. Can’t wait to get you on your own, no interruptions. Just you, me, and the hot tub. It’s gonna be the best holiday ever. Hugs xoxo_

He called over his owl, Peewee, who was currently sitting on his bedside table and tearing strips from his old History of Magic textbook, and tied the letter to his leg. With any luck, Scorpius wouldn’t be too pissed off with him. And if he was, Albus would have a week in an almost deserted chalet, in a bedroom of their own, to make it up to him.


	2. The wine, the hope, and you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the song Greenwood by Banner Pilot

_HARRY_

Harry leant forward and rested his elbows on the balustrade, gazing out across the treetops to the snow-covered town below and further, toward the mountains across the valley. He’d forgotten how peaceful it was here. He’d grown so used to the bustle of London since moving back into Grimmauld Place, even liked it to a certain extent, everyone always busy, always moving, that it felt strange to be somewhere without the background hum of traffic interspersed with sirens. It was good to be back, though. The last time he’d visited would have been about six years ago now—the summer before Albus started Hogwarts, back before he started pulling away from everyone, before Harry felt like he was taking his life in his hands every time he stepped in for a hug. Things between them were nowhere near as bad as they had been before the… _incident_ in Albus’s fourth year, but there was still a distance between them that wasn’t present with James or Lily. Hopefully, though, this holiday would help reduce that distance. Albus would realise that Harry knew how important Scorpius was to him, and understand that he was making an effort to get to know him, and then… who knew. Maybe they’d attend Quidditch matches together, or do crafts, or… or go on father-son fishing trips.

Making an effort to get to know his son’s best friend wasn’t the only purpose of the holiday, though. He also hoped to get to know Draco better. Obviously, it made sense for them to be friendly since their sons were so close, but recently, he had also recognised something of his own loneliness reflected in Draco. He knew from various sources (mostly Albus) that Draco hadn’t had a serious relationship since Astoria had passed away, and that he rarely socialised, so Harry thought there might be a chance they could be, if not friends, then occasional drinking partners at the very least. They could be lonely old men together, bemoaning the world and the sorry state of their sex lives. Merlin knew it would do him good to have a friend who wasn’t mutual with his ex-wife. And if he had also happened to notice how handsome Draco was these days, that was neither here nor there. 

Looking back, he’d always known Draco was, well. Beautiful, he supposed. It was just that back at school, Draco’d been a massive twat, and after that, after the dust had settled from the war, they’d both been happily married and not had much to do with each other. Then there was the whole ‘our sons almost destroyed the world together’ drama a couple of years ago, and he’d been too stressed to pay much attention to the curve of Draco’s soft, pink lips or how he curled his slender fingers around his wand or the way he moved with a graceful ease Harry could only dream about. Now, though. Now things were different. Harry had quit his job, had quit his marriage (by mutual agreement, after Ginny’s suggestion), and for the first time in a long while, he’d found he had time to really think about what it was _he_ wanted, what _he_ needed. 

Harry had almost choked on his tongue when Draco had turned up to meet Scorpius at the train. He’d got his hair cut since Harry had last seen him, and Merlin fuck, did it suit him. It was no longer scraped back off his face and held back in a prissy little ponytail, but short—shorter on the sides than the top—slightly wavy, and casually swept back off his forehead, although not in the severe way he’d had at school. It looked softer now, the natural wave allowed to shape the hair, give it body, and Harry itched to run his fingers through it, muss it up a little bit, feel the strands play through his fingers… The whole time he’d been owling Draco about the holiday, he’d had in his head the image of Draco as he’d been during all that… nastiness when the boys were in fourth year, so he’d not been remotely prepared for the Draco who’d turned up. A Draco who’d improved with age, somehow managing to look younger, healthier, more vibrant, while Harry’s hair and stubble got peppered with grey and the muscle definition he’d worked so hard to maintain during his twenties and early thirties had softened into a squashy podge around his middle. He reckoned he must have hit his peak around thirty-five, and since then, everything had just been a down-hill slide into saggy shapelessness.

Sighing, he turned his back on the picture-postcard view and peered through the window, seeking out his middle child. The chalet looked warm and inviting, with the fire and the soft twinkling of fairy lights casting a soft glow over everything. Everyone but Albus was crowded around the coffee table playing what Harry could only guess was a modified version of Exploding Snap, or something similar. Whatever it was, it was noisy and seemed to involve jumping up and shouting at random intervals. Predictably, Albus was sitting slightly away from the others, curled up in the large armchair, chewing his thumbnail as he stared at a book in his lap. However, Harry could tell he wasn’t actually reading, due to the way his eyes kept darting to the fireplace, clearly impatient for his friend to arrive. 

The cuckoo clock above the mantel opened its little door, the mechanical movement catching Harry’s eye from outside, and the tiny wooden bird sprung out, announcing the hour to anyone who was listening. A swarm of butterflies took flight in Harry’s stomach. Draco and Scorpius were due to arrive in half an hour, although Draco had mentioned they might get a little delayed by customs so it could (would hopefully) be a little longer. Merlin, what had he been thinking, inviting Draco Malfoy to spend a week in a chalet in the snow with him? 

Harry heaved another sigh and tried to mask the giddy excitement bubbling away inside him. Merlin, but he was worse than Albus. He turned back to watch the flickering lights of the village below, savouring the last few moments of peace.

*

It was thirst that eventually drove Harry back into the chalet. A very specific kind of thirst that could only be slaked by a glass of wine. He could hear everyone bickering, but tuned it out—they were more than old enough to sort any issues out between themselves. And if they needed him to step in, they only had to ask.

As if on cue, Albus’s voice rang out. “Daaaad, tell James he can’t have the room with the hot tub on the balcony.”

“James, you can’t have the room with the hot tub on the balcony,” Harry said without looking round. He was too busy trying to find a wine glass. He’d found tumblers, pint glasses, and every size in between, but nothing specifically for wine—_what sort of French people didn’t have wine glasses?_ His hand hovered over a large tankard glass as he internally debated the merits of appearing like an alcoholic in front of everyone before he saw Lorenzo, one of the live-in chalet elves, nudge a (disappointingly small) glass of red along the worktop towards his elbow.

“Yes! Told you I’d get it,” Lily crowed. She poked her tongue out at her brothers, which had the—clearly desired—effect of riling them up further. Harry sighed and took a sip of his wine, mourning the loss of his peace. He leant against the counter, wine in hand, and settled in to referee their latest squabble. He’d intervene if it looked like wands might get drawn (which thankfully didn’t happen all that often these days). 

“That’s not fair! Why does she get it?” Albus whined.

James stood up, jarring the coffee table. “I’m the oldest, so it should be mine.” 

“Well, I’m the youngest so—”

“Only by a few months!” Hugo added.

Lily eyed him speculatively. “We could share?” she suggested, and Harry wondered whether she’d made a bargain with the Sorting Hat to be put into Gryffindor because that was a Slytherin move if he ever saw one. That daughter of his was more Slytherin than Albus and Scorpius combined.

“Yeah? That would work,” Hugo replied with an easy shrug.

James and Albus, united in their outrage for once, were quick to voice their displeasure with more whining cries of ‘Daaaaad!’ and a few words Harry pretended not to hear.

“Enough!” Harry shouted. “The only person getting the master bedroom is me, so all discussions need to end _now_” He rode out the next wave of objections for a couple of minutes before trying to silence them with his best stern-dad glare. It didn’t work though. Of course it didn’t. It never did. Would it stop him from trying, though?

He didn’t even try to follow the ensuing argument, deciding that his input would only make things worse. They were all adults, well. James, Louis, and Albus were, just about. And Rose wasn’t far off. Lily was the youngest at fourteen, but Harry had no doubt she could handle herself with her siblings and cousins. It was actually quite fascinating watching allegiances form and then get tossed aside as better options surfaced, and Harry was so engrossed watching everything play out, he barely registered the fire flaring green until Draco and Scorpius tumbled out, one after the other, onto the large hearthrug.

“Good evening, terribly sorry we’re late. Customs was a nightmare. I’d say ‘you know how it is’, but clearly you don’t,” Draco said with a tight smile as he dusted himself down. “I doubt Saint Potter has to queue for over an hour just so a gaggle of jobsworths can stamp the same bloody form five times,” he muttered, spelling the last of the dust from himself and Scorpius. 

Harry barely heard him though. In fact, if he hadn’t already been leaning back against the breakfast island, he would have needed to put a hand out to steady himself because _what right_ did Draco have, entering the chalet looking so good in a fucking novelty Christmas jumper? In what world was that fair? 

Only Draco Malfoy could manage to make a snowflake-patterned woolly jumper featuring a Niffler wearing a Santa hat look like high fashion. Harry bit back a grimace as he quickly glanced down at his own ten-plus-year-old Weasley jumper, a jaunty sprig of holly depicted on the top-left of the large, gold-ish H. At least no one could accuse him of making an effort. Maybe that was why Ginny left. Well, one of the reasons, anyway.

Harry’s chest felt tight and yet fluttery at the same time but he couldn’t work out why because he was a forty-three-year-old man, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t be getting weird palpitations because of an old, unfairly attractive, not-quite-friend turning up. Unless it was a heart attack. Shit. _Was_ it a heart attack? Draco frowned and Harry realised he must have been relaying all of his internal panic on his face, so he plastered on a smile and welcomed Draco and his son into the chalet.

“Hi Draco, Scorpius. Glad you could make it.” He stepped forward and shook Draco’s hand, and the sensation of Draco’s hand sliding into his did absolutely nothing to help the probable-heart attack he was currently experiencing. Draco’s palm was warm and dry, the skin soft and uncallused, whereas Harry knew his own probably felt like a warmed-over piece of fish and so he mentally commended Draco for not shrieking in disgust and wrenching his hand away. 

Fortunately, Harry’s appreciation of Draco’s skin was cut short before he was able to make things too weird when the room-share argument reignited thanks to Lily’s cry of: “Bags the double with the en suite!” 

Harry sighed. The holiday was already off to a fantastic start. He could only hope Draco wouldn’t judge him too harshly. “As I was going to say: You’re more than welcome to fight it out amongst yourselves, but I thought perhaps James and Albus could take one of the doubles; Rose and Lily could get the other; Hugo and Louis, you guys could have the room with the bunk beds, and Draco and Scorpius could have the twin. Okay?”

Predictably, the complaints started up immediately. He’d known none of them would be particularly happy with his suggestion, and that in the end, they’d sleep wherever the hell they wanted, but it was a five-bedroom chalet and compromises had to be made somewhere. At least he’d said his piece now. And as long as no one stole the master bedroom from him, they could all bundle into the same room for all he cared. (He couldn’t quite imagine Draco going for that option, though.)

“I’m not sharing a bed with Albus,” James shouted. “He snores. And farts. Constantly!” 

“No I don’t! And I’m gonna share with Scorp anyway.”

“Not if you fart as much as James says.”

Albus rounded on Scorpius, brows drawn together. “Hey! You share a dorm with me— you know that’s not true!”

“Oh! Right, of course. In that case, yes, I want to share with Albus.” Scorpius shared a smile with Albus (Harry would never get over how different his usually sullen middle child was around his best friend), and the pair shuffled closer together, a united front against the others.

“Okay, so that’s you two weirdos sorted, but why do me and Rose have to share a bed?” Lily glared around the room, her arms folded across her chest. “Is it because we’re the only girls? That’s so sexist.”

“Fuck off, Lily. Dad wanted me to share with Al, which is… reverse sexist or—”

“Not a real thing, Jay,” Albus said wearily, at the same time as Lily and Rose rolled their eyes, and Harry belatedly snapped, “Language, James!” 

“Lily and I want a bed each, at the very least,” Rose stated, her tone broking no argument. “We’ll take the twin.”

“But what about Mr Malfoy?” Albus asked.

“Maybe he could take the room with the bunk beds,” Louis suggested with a one-shouldered shrug.

Harry couldn’t help himself; he gasped. Loudly. “Draco can’t sleep in a bunk bed!” When everyone looked at him, he clamped his mouth shut, because he didn’t care who slept where, and Draco was more than capable of speaking up for himself if he was unhappy with any of the arrangements being suggested. He glanced over and saw Draco standing off to the side looking a little bewildered, but thankfully not outraged.

“It’s really okay, I don’t mind,” Draco offered, meeting Harry’s eye for a fraction of a second. He had that slightly hunted look people sometimes got when faced with a rabble of Weasley offspring when they were all talking over each other, and Harry felt a little bad for drawing him into the madness that was his family.

“I still don’t see why Dad gets the room with the balcony and the hot tub,” James whined, because he never did learn when to let something go.

“Because I deserve it after putting up with you lot!” The room fell silent and Harry felt his face heat as all eyes turned to him. Again. Maybe he could pass the pink cheeks off as his being over-heated by the fire.

“Wow, Dad. Entitled much,” Lily muttered as everyone broke into muffled sniggers.

James stood up and waited until the sniggering had subsided, like a politician working the crowd. “Okay, okay. I have an idea. How about Mr Malfoy shares with you, Dad, then Scorp and Al can take the bunk beds, me and Louis will take the twin, then Rose, Lily, and Hugo can fight it out over the two doubles.” 

Harry spluttered, his face practically glowing now. Him and Malfoy? Sharing not just a room, but a bed? What a ridiculous idea. For a start, Draco would never go for it, and, well. He wanted Draco to like him, and forcing him to share a bed was unlikely to accomplish that, not if Harry was poking him in the back with a raging boner every morning—a feat he was sure even his decrepit body could accomplish thanks to Draco looking like he’d stepped straight out of one of Harry’s wank fantasies. Merlin. Why did he have to look so fuckable? He supposed he could just offer to sleep on the sofa. It would only be for a week, after all, and the temporary discomfort of sleeping on a sofa was vastly preferable to the permanent mortification he’d suffer from jabbing Draco with an inconvenient morning erection… The holiday was going from bad to worse.

“I’ll take the sofa,” Hugo said before Harry could offer to the same. “The girls can take the beds.”

The room quickly emptied as everyone levitated their bags to the rooms. Hugo dumped his by the sofa and then followed James and Louis to the twin they’d claimed.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets as he diligently continued to avoid Draco’s eye. Silence hung heavily over them, the void left by everyone’s absence sitting in the room like a black hole, sucking the small talk out of Harry before he could even voice it. He didn’t want to offend Draco by seeming to be horrified by the sleeping arrangement, but he also didn’t want to appear too enthusiastic, and he could think of nothing to say that wasn’t some comment or other about it. 

“Well. That was bracing.” Draco said eventually, cleaving the awkwardness in two. “I suppose you’d better show me to our room.”

Harry huffed out a laugh. _Our._ Fucking hell. “Yeah. Sorry about that. They can get a little carried away.” He levitated his suitcase with a twist of his hand and it bobbed over to the foot of the stairs, patiently waiting for him to take the lead. “We, um… We don’t have to share if you don’t want to. I mean, I’m sure we can figure out an alternative— maybe you and Scorpius could share the master and I’ll take the bunk beds with Al?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry.” Draco huffed. “We’re both grown men. I’m sure we’re capable of sleeping in the same room for a week. Unless I truly repulse you that much?” He arched an eyebrow at Harry, challenging. 

“No! It’s not that… it’s just. It’s an old bed, handcrafted by Fleur’s great-great-great someone-or-other, and like most of the furniture here, it’s layered with so many charms and protections that we won’t be able to, um. transfigure it in any way, so…”

“So, what you’re saying is that we’ll have to share,” Draco said slowly. He pursed his lips, exhaled through his nose. “Well. I suppose there’s nothing much we can do, then. I’m sure we’ll survive.” 

“Yeah, no. I mean. It’ll be fine, I’m sure. I… yeah. It’ll be okay. Come on. Let’s go.” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat. This was ridiculous. He was acting like a teenage boy with a crush. This was Cho all over again. Merlin help him if he tried to do anything rash like kiss the man and send him into a fit of sobs. Good god. If that didn’t earn him a swift, sharp kick in the bollocks… But why was he thinking about _kissing_ Draco? No. Friends. They needed to be _friends._ Or friendly-ish acquaintances. For the sake of their boys. Harry could _not_ fuck this up. And as long as his sleeping body didn’t try to latch onto the nearest heat source, he’d be fine… But, of course, knowing him, latching onto the nearest heat source (or unfairly fit body) would be exactly what happened. Shit. He could take the floor. Or transfigure his toothbrush into a bristly camp bed. Lorenzo could probably locate enough spare bedding that it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable…

Keeping all these thoughts to himself, Harry trudged up the stairs to the master bedroom, Draco just behind him, the wooden staircase protesting noisily under their feet. 

The interior of the room was much like the rest of the chalet in that there was an abundance of wood and fur. Harry had a sudden panic that Draco was vegetarian or vegan and would find the decor hideous—not that dead animal would have been Harry’s first choice—but it felt right here. It was simple, rustic, and Harry loved it. It always made him feel like he was returning to nature, even though anything more than a cursory glance would reveal that each piece of furniture was generations old and had, at one time, been very expensive. A pair of sturdy looking wardrobes stood sentinel in the corners, a long sideboard running between them. The wood gleamed, worn smooth through use, and Harry ran a hand along the surface, a silent greeting to the space he’d last shared with his ex-wife. One wall was almost completely taken over by large French windows that opened out onto a balcony, partially covered by a pair of diaphanous curtains. The hot tub off to one side was already steaming, small orbs within the water casting a soft light that appeared to make the steam glow. Beyond the balcony, the mountain dropped away, offering views across the valley where skeletal chairlifts, now motionless, lined the slopes, just about visible in the fading light.

The focal point of the room was, of course, the wooden-framed bed, king-sized and piled with soft blankets, furs, and a mountain of pillows. It was positioned so one could watch the sun rise over the mountains outside the window while sat up in bed with a coffee, and Harry had been looking forward to doing just that, although he supposed neither he nor Draco would be loitering in bed in the mornings. He shuddered. He used to think the bed looked huge, but with the prospect of sharing it with Draco looming over him, it suddenly looked far too small. What if he had a nightmare and accidentally punched Draco, or worse, what if his sleeping form tried to act out some of the more explicit dreams he’d had about a certain blond recently. Fuck. This could be bad. So bad.

Harry tore his gaze away from the sumptuous, gold-trimmed pillows and looked up at the stag’s head mounted on the wall above the bed, lurking like a glassy-eyed guardian of virtue. He vividly remembered ripping a pair of Ginny’s favourite knickers when attempting to Accio them after they got caught on the antlers during a particularly energetic evening. She’d been so pissed off at the time, but they’d laughed about it later and his cheeks pinked as he recalled how he’d made it up to her… That was not a good line of thought to be wandering down right now, though.

“Do you have a preference?” Draco asked, and for a split second, Harry thought he’d spoken out loud. He whipped his eyes away from the stag and the horror in his face must have been evident because Draco took a half step back, staring at Harry as if he was unhinged. “The bed,” he said, gesturing at the large, unmissable piece of furniture in front of them. “Do you prefer the left or the right?”

“Oh, uh. Left, I guess.” He didn’t particularly care. Back when he and Ginny shared their first bed he’d taken the left side purely because it was against the wall and Ginny didn’t like feeling closed in, and the habit had stuck. Even now, without having shared the bed with another person (for sleep, at least) for a whole year, he still naturally gravitated to the left side, but if Draco was dead set on a particular side, he wouldn’t fight it.

“Perfect. I much prefer the right.” He opened his suitcase with a flick of his wand and floated a pair of silky, deep purple pyjamas over to the bed and lay them, still neatly folded on his newly claimed stack of pillows. “Not that I have much call to share these days,” he added a beat later, with a wistful smile.

Harry wasn’t sure quite how to respond. Why had Draco said that? Was he…? No. He obviously didn’t mean anything by it. Harry ran an increasingly sweaty hand through his hair and shuffled towards the door. “I’ll, um. Leave you to get settled. Lorenzo said he’ll do dinner for eight, so, yeah. Come down whenever.”

“Thanks.” Draco glanced over his shoulder and nodded his acknowledgement, but his attention remained on the task of unpacking. Harry spared a guilty look at his own suitcase sitting in the corner of the room before he turned to leave. “I dearly hope your middle child didn’t inherit his flatulence problems from you,” Draco called after him. 

Harry snorted out a laugh, almost stumbling down the first step, and turned around to see Draco’s lips twitching like he was trying to suppress a smile. “That’s all his mother’s side,” he said. “Nothing to do with his Potter genes.”

“Good to know.” 

He continued to chuckle as he headed downstairs, feeling much lighter than he had on the way up. Maybe they _could_ share a bed without issue. Draco was clearly fine with it, and if he could do it, Harry could.

*

Much to Harry’s surprise, dinner went smoothly, with no major disagreements between anyone. It seemed now that everyone had somewhere to sleep, they were back to being best friends, and the atmosphere was light and happy as everyone ate. He’d been a little worried that some of them might be a bit annoyed or uncomfortable by Draco and Scorpius’s presence, but even Rose, who’d never really warmed to Scorpius—how, Harry wasn’t sure, since the boy was a delight—appeared to have no problem talking to Draco about some obscure manuscript she was planning to analyse for her NEWTs next year. It felt surprisingly good and it warmed Harry’s heart (and eased the tension in his shoulders) considerably to see his family and his potential new friend getting on so well.

Albus and Scorpius retreated to their room almost as soon as the dessert plates were cleared, but everyone else stayed up for another couple of hours, chatting or playing board games, until one by one, the kids started peeling off to bed. Lily was first, shortly followed by Rose, and then Hugo who mumbled something about taking the floor in Rose’s room since the sofa was too crowded. 

Harry bid each of them goodnight as they trailed up the stairs. He was fairly tired himself, but wasn’t quite ready to call it quits; he was on holiday—he had to at least wait until after the clock struck midnight, or what was the point? He certainly wasn’t putting off going to bed for any reason… But then James and Louis stumbled down to their basement room—both worse the wear for schnapps—and an anxious fluttering took up in Harry’s stomach as he realised he was alone with Draco for the first time since he and his son had arrived. With the conversation all but dried up, Harry watched the flames dance in the fireplace while he finished his drink.

When the oppressive thickness of the silence became too uncomfortable, Harry took the opportunity to sneak a glance at Draco, wondering if the man had fallen asleep. Lorenzo must have dimmed the lamps at some point because the only light was coming from the fire, bathing Draco in warm oranges and yellows and dancing shadows. He looked younger somehow, more alive, his sharp edges softened by the molten glow from the fire. He appeared completely at ease, reclining in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, half-full glass dangling lazily from his fingers, and Harry’s chest ached with the need to… to _touch,_ to tuck that loose lock of hair behind his ear, to press his ear to Draco’s chest and hear the life thrumming through him, feel the warmth from his skin. 

He screwed his eyes shut against the onslaught of desire. The alcohol was a bad move. He’d thought it might help him sleep, help knock him out so his body wouldn’t betray him in the night, but now he was worried. Not only that he might try and snuggle into Draco while they slept, but also the threat of being disturbed by nightmares was beginning to feel more immediate. He didn’t get them very often at all these days, but the danger was always there, especially when he was stressed or anxious. He’d thought vaguely that if he was tired enough, tipsy enough, he would fall into a dead sleep, but his mind still felt so wired; conflicting thoughts about Draco, memories of happier times with Ginny, all swirled around in his head, blending together and making the past feel so much more… present. It never boded well for an uninterrupted night’s sleep when his head was like this. He’d packed some Dreamless Sleep—never went anywhere overnight without it _just in case_—but he hated having to resort to using it. Merlin. If Draco knew he was at risk of being sleep-humped or hit by a stray flailing arm, he’d Apparate straight to the Floo.

Harry dragged the night out a little longer, topping up both his and Draco’s wine, but when sleep started to tug at his eyelids he knew he couldn’t avoid going to bed any longer, so wearily made his peace with whatever might happen.

*

The atmosphere was almost tangible as they climbed the stairs. Harry wondered if it was just him, reading more into the situation than there was, getting caught up on wild speculation and worrying about things that in all likelihood wouldn’t happen—something he’d been accused of on more than one occasion—but Draco seemed tense too, Harry was certain of it. He walked stiffly, as if he was wading through treacle, really having to force his legs to carry him forwards. It had to be more than the wine. Had Harry let something slip? Was Draco regretting sharing a bed with him?

As the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Draco silently grabbed something from his bag and disappeared into the bathroom without a word and Harry sagged at the respite from searching for something to talk about. He tugged his pyjamas and toiletries bag out of his suitcase, and sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, as he waited for Draco to emerge. He tried not to think about the two vials of Dreamless Sleep in his bag, tucked away in a side pocket with the small bottle of Olbas Oil and a half-empty packet of paracetamol which seemed to have taken up permanent residence. He refused to take it unless absolutely necessary because he hated the idea of not being able to wake up properly and he also didn’t want to become reliant on potions, but what if he woke up screaming and flailing? Draco would probably hex him first and ask questions later. 

He sighed, knowing he should probably warn Draco. It was only fair since they’d be in the same bed.

Draco emerged from the bathroom with his pyjamas on and his clothes neatly folded under his arm. Harry watched him stride purposefully across the room and busy himself with putting his clothes away. Without the winter jumper and thick trousers, Harry could properly see how slim Draco was— the rich purple pyjamas hung off his slender frame, leaving almost nothing to the imagination and making him seem even paler. He didn’t look scrawny but—and maybe Harry had spent too much time around Molly Weasley—Harry kind of wanted to feed him up a bit. Look after him. Did he ever treat himself to an extra slice of cake? With Draco’s attention elsewhere, Harry allowed his gaze to wander, taking in every inch of Draco; from the thin, black hair-band keeping his hair pulled back off his face, to the prissy little buttons that lined the front of his pyjama top, down to his pale, bony feet. And that, for some reason, was where his eyes stuck. Draco’s feet were bare, crooked toes sinking into the thick fur of the reindeer hide rug on the floor, and the sight of this very mundane part of Draco, a part of him that was normally hidden from view, tugged at something within Harry; made his stomach flip-flop and his heart speed up. Draco had always looked so put-together, so elegant, but the whole time he’d been hiding those bony claw-feet in his Berluti’s. Rather than being repulsed, Harry found it strangely endearing. He found he wanted to know if Draco’s knees were weirdly knobbly too. 

Draco cleared his throat and Harry hurriedly ripped his eyes away to stare at the rug in a manner that hopefully suggested he’d been staring at the rug the whole time (but would have fooled no one with half a brain cell) before slowly trailing his eyes up deep purple silk to Draco’s face. He didn’t mean it to be an appraising look, not really, but Draco apparently took it that way because his cheeks were flushed and he looked about two seconds from hexing Harry in the face.

“It’s all yours,” Draco said tightly, nodding to the bathroom. 

Harry shot him a smile—a hopefully reassuring ‘I can’t believe we have to do this’ smile, and not an ‘oh fuck what are we doing’ grimace—and then scurried off to take his turn, pyjamas and toiletries clutched to his chest.

As he brushed his teeth—the Muggle way because the charm always made his teeth feel too squeaky and just the thought made him shudder—Harry stared at himself in the mirror, squinting in the unforgiving light. He was a mess, no two ways about it. There were the deepening wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the grey hair slowly encroaching on black (Hermione reckoned he looked distinguished, which was a load of crap and they both knew it), the crooked tooth which was the only thing he could see whenever he smiled for pictures. It was ridiculous, someone like him even lusting after someone like Draco. There was no chance he would be interested even if it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to hit on his son’s best friend’s dad. He needed to remind himself of the point of this holiday; that it was for him and Draco to get to know each other, to hopefully become friends. Draco was someone who wouldn’t look at him as just one half of a failed marriage or the ageing Saviour of the Wizarding World. But it would be so much easier to remember this if Draco hadn’t turned up looking so fucking _good_, and making things stir inside of Harry that he thought had withered and died from disuse.

When he exited the bathroom after an extended internal pep talk, the lamps had been dimmed, casting a soft glow over the room. Draco was already in bed, lying rigidly on his side, and scooted so far over he looked to be at risk of falling out. Harry could tell he wasn’t asleep yet, though, not unless he was capable of glaring while sleeping (and to be honest, he wouldn’t have put it past Draco to master that very niche skill). Harry was just wondering what he’d done to earn such a look—had he been too noisy in the bathroom? Godric’s balls, he hoped not—when he noticed that it wasn’t the bedside lamp that was responsible to the odd light in the room, but rather, a round, glowing ball on the bedside table next to Draco. It was about the size of a grapefruit, but the surface was rough and it emitted a soft, pale yellow light that appeared to undulate at varying brightnesses. It looked a bit like a miniature moon, Harry thought. He flicked his gaze back to Draco to find the glare had deepened, as if daring Harry to pass comment. Why was he being so prickly? He wasn’t going to get sucked into the argument Draco clearly expected, though. So Draco slept with a night light? It was… interesting, and maybe, _no,_ definitely, when he was younger he would probably have laughed, and ripped the piss, but now? He shrugged, hopefully demonstrating his indifference to Draco’s sleeping habits, and turned away, chucking his clothes towards where his suitcase lay open in the corner, before sliding beneath the cloud-soft duvet.

“I’ve not been able to sleep in the dark since… well.” Draco’s voice was a low rumble, not much above a whisper. “If... If it bothers you—”

“No!” Harry answered quickly, twisting his neck to look back at Draco. “No,” he repeated with a little less vigour, settling back down on the bed, facing the wall again. Giving Draco his privacy. “It doesn’t bother me at all. I mean, I understand. I get it.”

An uneasy silence fell between them. Harry could hear his breath, which was apparently competing with his heart for the title of noisiest bodily process. The moment felt tender, vulnerable, and Harry didn’t want to break it. And then his patience was rewarded.

“Astoria used to hate it,” Draco continued, scoffing lightly. “She pretended she didn’t, and she never once complained, but I could tell it annoyed her. I… the nightmares. They still wake me up sometimes, and if it’s dark, I think… I feel…” The bed shifts and Harry wonders if Draco is turning to look at him, but he doesn’t look around to check, remaining firmly on his side, staring a hole into the wall. “It’s like I’m sixteen again, hiding in my room with the light off, hoping no one realises I’m home. Just… waiting. Waiting for the footsteps. The creak of the doorknob…”

Harry had no idea what to say to that. His heart was in his throat. He wanted to gather Draco up in his arms and never let him go, but he couldn’t. He decided instead to open up a little himself, let Draco see some of his own weaknesses. It would maybe lessen some of the tension in the room, repay the trust Draco had shown in opening up to him. “I… I still get nightmares too. Not all the time, but… it’s enough. I should probably get one of those night light things. It’s nice.” It sounded like a cheap sentiment even to his own ears, but he meant it. The undulations of the light painted swaying shadows over the room and it felt slightly hypnotic watching them.

“Thank you,” Draco replied quietly. “Scorpius bought it for me. I’ll ask him where he got it, although it was quite a few years ago now.”

Harry murmured his thanks and a calm descended over the room. He couldn’t stop thinking about Draco and the form his nightmares must take; the things he must have suffered to spark the nightmares in the first place. He wished he could do something to help, but all he had were platitudes and… “I’ve, um, got some Dreamless Sleep with me if you need it?”

The bed jolted and Harry looked over his shoulder to find Draco glaring down at him. “You know that stuff’s addictive, don’t you?” 

“Calm down, I don’t take it all the time. It’s just… I don’t know. Comforting, maybe, to know it’s there in case I need it.”

“Oh.” Draco settled back down. “They’re still bad, then? The nightmares.”

“When they happen, yeah. But it’s not that often. Not like it was when I was younger. They got worse again after the boys… well. You remember. That’s when I started needing the potion again. I have a Mind Healer now, though. She helps.” He shrugged and clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself to stop talking. He only meant to share a little, not offload his entire life story onto Draco, but there was something about the soft, soothing glow of the night light, the warm buzz of alcohol in his limbs, and the solid, reassuring weight of Draco beside him in the bed that was loosening his tongue. If he didn’t shut up soon he’d end up confessing all his wank fantasies.

“I apologise for immediately assuming you were a potion addict,” Draco said, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice that suggested he wasn’t really sorry. “I’ve been seeing a Mind Healer too. Ever since Astoria died. I probably should have seen someone sooner, but you know how it is. I didn’t want to trouble anyone. Thought I had it under control. It seemed easier to self-medicate.” 

Harry tamped down another strong urge to hug Draco that washed over him. He felt awful for bringing up the Dreamless Sleep, but at least it answered the question of whether or not he’d take it himself. It looked like he’d be taking his chances with accidental snuggling and nightmares.

“I’m glad you came,” Harry said after a beat. 

Draco snorted. “I think I’ll reserve judgement until I find out whether you snore, or worse.”

“Twat.” Harry huffed out a laugh, pleased that Draco didn’t seem to be dwelling too much on the past. He was glad they’d sort of discussed it—it felt good, if a little confusing, speaking honestly—but he was relieved to move on and put it behind them for now. “Night, _Malfoy.”_

“Night, _Potter.”_

Despite how tired and wrung out he felt, sleep was a long time coming for Harry. It was strange sleeping next to someone, especially someone who wasn’t Ginny. He could hear Draco’s breaths even out as he relaxed and drifted off; could smell the woody, almost floral scent of his cologne; could feel the warmth of his body even across the vast expanse of bed between them. He was frozen in place, though. Afraid to move in case they accidentally touched. He hated that he had no idea how to act. He thought that as a forty-three-year-old man, he would have his shit together already. But then, he’d been in a relationship with the same person for over twenty years so it probably wasn’t so strange… and when was the last time he’d actually tried to make a new friend? In a way, it would be easier if all he wanted to do was fuck Draco, at least then he wouldn’t have to worry about any emotional fallout. But as it was, if he fucked things up by acting like a lecherous old man who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, Albus would never forgive him. 

What he needed was advice, but who could he speak to? He was completely out of his depth—he couldn’t even tell if Draco wanted to be friends, let alone if there was anything else there, although accepting the holiday seemed to imply he wasn’t completely against the idea of getting to know Harry. But would that change after being forced to share a bed with him for a week?

Huffing, Harry punched his pillow plump and tugged the duvet back up around his shoulder. He wouldn’t fuck this up. He _couldn’t._ Draco Malfoy would be his friend whether he liked it or not.

*

The bed was already empty when Harry was roused by the smell of bacon drifting up from the kitchen the next morning, and Draco was nowhere to be seen. His side of the bed had been smoothed down, like he was incapable of leaving it unmade even as someone still slept in it, and there was no sign of his pyjamas. In fact, if it wasn’t for the night light sitting on the bedside table, Harry might have thought he’d imagined the whole evening. He got up slowly and stretched. He hoped he hadn’t done anything… inappropriate to scare Draco off while he slept, but he was fairly sure he’d remember if he had. He vaguely remembered dreaming about an endless stack of paperwork, which had been neither arousing nor terrifying, so it seemed despite his worries, he had survived his first night with Draco without incident. Now all he had to do was survive the day watching Draco’s salopettes-clad arse wiggling down the mountain. Perhaps a shower and a bit of alone time before breakfast would be a good idea—it wouldn’t do to get too distracted on the slopes, after all. 


	3. You're what I came here for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song Starting at the Ending by Banner Pilot

_DRACO_

Draco was the first one up, again. He gritted his teeth and glared at Harry, still sprawled across the mattress, one pillow hugged to his chest, hair a messy halo around his head, legs tangled in the duvet. He wasn’t snoring, but it was a close-run thing—there was a fine line between heavy breathing and snoring, and Harry was currently balancing precariously on it. At least he’d kept to his side—not that it mattered since Draco had still barely gotten a wink of sleep. Two nights done. Only another five to go. He could do this. 

He carefully inched out of bed so as not to wake Harry, biting down a wince as his back, thighs, and calves screamed in unison, then hobbled into the bathroom. He had no idea how he was going to last another day on the slopes. Muscles he didn’t even know he had protested at the slightest movement, and with each twinge, he cursed the day he had agreed to come on this stupid holiday. He’d thought, a little foolishly in hindsight, that since he’d skied before, he would be fine. So, when Harry had suggested Draco join Scorpius and the others on their lesson while he, James, and Louis went bombing around the mountain, of course he’d told him to fuck right off. He didn’t need lessons—when he was in his early twenties, he, Astoria, Blaise, and Pansy had holiday’d in Verbier countless times, rubbing shoulders with the Muggle elite, getting horrendously drunk on Jaegermeister, schnapps, and far too much champagne, and generally making the most of being young, beautiful, rich, and delightfully anonymous. He hadn’t stopped to consider that a twenty-year gap between skiing holidays might negatively impact his abilities somewhat. Now, though, after having spent the day playing catch up with Harry, James, and Louis, it was abundantly clear that all his skiing muscles had long since shrivelled up like one of those desiccated house-elf heads Great Aunt Walburga had liked to decorate her house with.

Eventually, Draco made it into the bathroom and stood under the shower, water as hot as he could bear. He closed his eyes, tilting his face into the stream, and groaned lowly as the water pounded his skin. Why did Harry have to be so… _him_. Not only was he unfairly attractive, but he was also kind and understanding, not even batting an eyelid at Draco’s night light. To add another layer to his abject misery, he’d had another dream about Harry last night and his cock still felt fat and heavy against his thigh. He knew he’d never be able to move his hand fast enough to get any sort of relief, though—another reason to hate skiing—so he was forced to ignore it. It was torture, and yet again, Harry was to blame. He never should have accepted Harry’s invitation. He should have known that being here, in close proximity to Harry—sharing a bloody bed with Harry—would stir up long-ignored feelings, but as always, where Harry was concerned, his common sense flew out of the window. 

Obviously, he’d been aware of Harry’s divorce—what he hadn’t gleaned from the papers over the past year or so, he’d heard from Scorpius—and from what he could tell, it had been a fairly amicable split. But he had to wonder, based on his shabby appearance at Platform 9 3/4 the other day, whether Harry had been handling it as well as he wanted people to think. He didn’t seem unhappy, as such, just a bit… lost. However… Draco would never admit it out loud, but he quite liked Harry’s new look. It made him look kind of rugged, well-lived. A bit like the Harry he remembered from school, only with stylish glasses and more grey in his hair. Far more appealing than any of the buttoned-up stiffs Draco encountered through his work at the Ministry or the barely legal young men that seemed to fill the clubs these days (not that he ever actually went out all that much). There was just something about Harry not looking as put together as he had in his role as head of the DMLE—a position he’d only recently given up, much to the consternation of the entire wizarding population. Draco had no idea what Harry occupied himself with these days, but it seemed to consist mostly of appearances at charity events and walking to the corner shop in his slippers, if the press was to be believed.

Harry was still sleeping when Draco emerged from the bathroom. He’d rolled over, spreading across more of the bed, and the sorry excuse for a pyjama top, which appeared to be little more than a faded, misshapen old Harpies t-shirt had ridden up, exposing Harry’s abdomen. Draco curled his hand into a fist as his fingers itched to trail his fingers through the dark curls that disappeared beneath the waistband of Harry’s boxers. He wondered if the skin was as soft as it looked; was it warmed by sleep? Would goosebumps blossom if he dragged a nail across his stomach? Before Draco could get too carried away, though, Harry stirred, snorting and scratching lazily at his groin, so Draco scurried downstairs without a backwards glance.

Draco was on his third coffee by the time Harry stumbled down to the table, bleary-eyed. Half his hair was flattened to his head from where his face had been pressed to the pillow and there was an angry red crease on one cheek, but it didn’t stop Draco’s traitorous mind from conjuring up the word ‘adorable’. He hastily averted his eyes and grabbed a _pain au chocolat_ despite already being full. He just needed something to occupy himself with so his eyes didn’t linger on the sliver of skin he saw when Harry, yawning widely and with no concern for those around him, stretched his arms over his head. Granted, he’d got a much better look at that very same patch only an hour prior, but there was something about it being flashed at him in a dining room while surrounded by pastries that sent an intense surge of desire coursing through him. It was wildly inappropriate. Thankfully, only James and Louis remained at the table and they were far too engrossed in eating their way through the cheese and meat platter to notice the deep flush spotting Draco’s cheeks.

*

The boot room was warm and musty and smelled like old socks, and if he closed his eyes, Draco could practically feel the bacteria crawling over everything. It made him feel unclean even before the day had fully started, and he hated it. He should have backed out. He should have told Harry he wasn’t going to bother skiing; that he had better things to do than repeatedly throw himself down an icy mountain. That way, he’d have had the chalet to himself all day. He could be spending the day soaking in the hot tub with a glass of wine and a good book… but then Harry had looked at him, that glint in his eye that said Harry _knew_ Draco was thinking of giving up and was fully prepared to rub his face in it. Well, not today, Potter! And so Draco once again found himself clad in hideously unflattering ski-wear and layered with so many cushioning charms, he thought he might blow away in a stiff breeze.

The kids had already left for their lessons, and James and Louis had decided they didn’t want to be held back by Draco and Harry so they’d disappeared not long after, leaving Harry and Draco alone in the boot room, slowly cooking in the warm, muggy space as they kitted themselves out. Draco had initially been nervous about letting Scorpius out of his sight in a Muggle ski resort—what if he skidded off a cliff or fell from one of those chairlifts? But he could hardly restrict Scorpius while all the Potters and Weasleys got to roam free across the mountain. Thankfully, though, Harry had then offered to place the same the Auror-level tracking charm on Scorpius as he’d placed on Lily and Hugo (with their consent, of course) and Draco had felt marginally more at ease. At least now, if Scorpius fell off a cliff, they’d know which one.

He scowled at his ski boots, currently upside-down on the drying rack. No amount of cushioning charms could make those hateful things comfortable. His ankles were still purple from yesterday’s efforts and he doubted they’d appreciate a second go. Harry didn’t appear to have the same problem, stamping his feet into a pair of boots that actually looked soft, if a little over-sized.

“Those things can’t possibly support your ankles,” Draco commented, hoping to wipe a little of the smugness off Harry’s face. He didn’t want to be the only one miserable about spending another day on the slopes. Why hadn’t he thought to bring more pain potion? It had been rather idiotic to think that he’d be able to ski as well as he had almost twenty years ago. Perhaps the excruciating pain in his arms and legs and arse and back was the muscle memory slowly clawing its way back to the fore?

“They’re a lot sturdier than they look,” Harry grunted, tugging on the laces of the left boot to tighten it. “And they’ve got this cool little J-bar thing inside. Cosy.”

“Oh, how wonderful for you,” Draco muttered, still eyeing his boots with loathing.

“You ever think about giving snowboarding a try?”

“No.” Draco grabbed his boots off the rack and loosened them as far as they’d go. Their exterior was a garish blue plastic with dulled silver clasps and he may have gazed a little covetously at the black leather of Harry’s boots.

“You should try it,” Harry said. As if it was that simple. “It’s so much more fun than skiing.”

“At this point, skewering my eyeballs with my wand would be more fun than skiing.” Draco tentatively slid a foot into one boot and winced as pain lanced up his leg. It felt like they were carved from stone; even through his thick sock and multiple cushioning charms, every brush of the ‘padding’ against his tender foot was like a thousand hot needles into his flesh. “Why would anyone make boots that cause physical agony? What on earth were they thinking?”

Harry snorted and shrugged as he stood up and tucked his snowboard under his arm. “My boots are fine. A little snug, perhaps, but then, you don’t want to break an ankle or anything because your feet are flapping around inside.”

“Delightful.” Draco tried again to force his foot into the unforgiving boot, but his body was tensed just from the expectation of pain and he couldn’t bring himself to go any further. “You go on,” he sighed, sagging defeatedly onto the wooden bench. “I’ll find a book to read. I noticed the Delacours have quite an impressive selection.”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Harry said, setting his snowboard back down in the rack. “Seriously, give ‘boarding a go. There’s bound to be a pair of boots that fit you in the _spares_ cupboard, and you can borrow Bill’s board. You’re about the same build…” He dragged his eyes over Draco’s body and Draco suppressed a shudder at the intensity of his gaze. “…more or less.”

“And what would you know about Bill’s build?” Draco said as a twinge of something like jealousy zipped through him. It wasn’t jealousy, though. He’d never be jealous of a Weasley. Not even one as objectively handsome as Bill.

“About as much as I know about yours.” Harry grinned, and then thankfully turned around to rummage in the cupboard at the back of the room before he could witness the red staining Draco’s cheeks, because what the _fuck_ did he mean by that? “Aha! Here you go,” he cried triumphantly, brandishing a pair of black and orange boots. He tossed them at Draco, one by one, without waiting for Draco to be ready to receive, and it was only his long-forgotten seeker reflexes that enabled him to catch them without injury.

“Go on, try them on,” Harry encouraged. “They’re layered with charms to keep them soft, warm, and perfectly contoured to your feet. I think there’s even a massage function buried in there, although I’ll be damned if I can remember what the activation spell is.”

Draco inspected one of the boots, peering inside, turning it over in his hand. The very idea of _secondhand shoes_ filled him with a such a deep revulsion that he risked bringing up his breakfast if he dwelt on it too long.

“They’re clean, you know. There’s no need to look at them like they’re riddled with spattergroit,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “I think Charlie used them once before deciding that he preferred dragons to snow, so they’ve no more than a few hours wear on them.”

Draco sniffed. He supposed they looked fairly clean… and the interior was much softer than those hideous ski boots he’d subjected his poor feet to yesterday, but… “Why do they not make ski boots like this if they’re truly so wonderful?”

“Er, no idea. Maybe because snowboarding is so much cooler?” Harry shrugged.

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry. You’re in your forties, act like it.” He pointedly ignored the tongue Harry poked out at him and sunk his foot into the boot. “Fuck _me_ that feels good,” he moaned as warmth enveloped his ankle, yesterday’s bruises and blisters now a fading memory.

“Good, right? It’s the dragonhide. Makes them highly receptive to all the charm work, unlike those ski boots.” Harry grinned; a lopsided, toothy grin that made Draco’s heart race. “You ready to give snowboarding a chance, then?”

Draco would forever blame his response to Harry’s question on the euphoria he was experiencing thanks to Charlie Weasley’s cast-offs, because he clearly wasn’t in his right mind when he replied, “Fine. How bad could it be?”

*

The answer, as it turned out, was Bad. Capital _B_ Bad. Horrendously so.

Pain shot through Draco as the snowboard skidded out from under him for the umpteenth time, the cold and wet leeching through his sodden salopettes and utterly useless gloves. He’d long since lost track of the number of cushioning charms he’d cast on his arse, and the drying charms now did no more than make his soggy undergarments steam. He’d officially _Had Enough,_ and no amount of cajoling by _Potter_ was going to change that. 

Harry plonked himself in the snow beside him, looking far too cheerful. “Come on, mate. Just a little longer and then we can stop for lunch, let you dry out a bit.” His cheeks were pink from the chilly air, and his hair stuck out in wild tufts from beneath his hat (which for some unknown reason featured a unicorn horn, a pair of fluffy white ears, and a rainbow tail.) He was grinning from ear to ear and panting heavily from the short climb back up the slope to Draco’s latest wipe-out, the breaths leaving him in little white puffs of cloud.

Oh, how Draco hated him right now. Stupid Potter with his _snowboarding is fun! You’ll love it!_ Making it look easy and forcing him to try it. Wooing him with a pair of fancy boots. Well, it wasn’t fun, and it certainly wasn’t easy. It was miserable and cold and wet and painful.

“I am _not_ your ‘mate’,” Draco ground out, leaning forward to try and release his feet from those infernal bindings. His feet—the one part of his body that wasn’t currently screaming in agony. 

“Sorry,” Harry replied, looking nothing of the sort. “You’ll want to keep the board on. We’ve still got another couple of runs until we get to the bottom, three if we take that red over to the left.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not moving another inch on that… that _contraption._ I’ll Apparate.”

“Apparate?”

“Yes, Apparate. Are you deaf?”

“But… you can’t Apparate! Didn’t you read that leaflet on the counter? Apparating directly from the slope could cause an avalanche! Look, I know it’s hard, but it’ll get easier, I promise. The learning curve is quite steep—” Draco snorted derisively; Harry ignored him “—but once you find your balance, you’ll be taking on kickers in no time!”

Draco muttered under his breath. “I’ll give _you_ a steep learning curve…” He begrudgingly got onto his feet, using the snowboard like an unnecessarily cumbersome walking aid. “In that case, I’m walking. Good day, Potter.” He gritted his teeth to avoid crying out as a fresh burst of pain spread out from his thighs when he took a step forwards.

“Oh for fuck’s sake….” Harry muttered behind him. 

Draco held his head high—well, as high as he could while his body was trying to implode on itself—and continued his slow, unsteady shuffle down the slope without acknowledging him. 

Icy air cut across the piste, biting into his cheeks and making his nose drip as he trudged on, jaw clenched against the pain. And just to add a fresh layer of shit to his already hellish day, every few seconds a skier or boarder would hurtle past, showering him with snow. If he didn’t need his snowboard to stay upright, he’d be tempted to throw it at the next prick who skidded past.

“Hey, what about that place?” Harry called after a few excruciatingly painful minutes. Draco looked over his shoulder to find Harry pointing to a relatively small track on the right, only a short distance down from where they were. He’d been so focused on putting one foot in front of the other without face-planting or getting wiped out by a passing skier or boarder that he hadn’t even noticed. Now he was looking, though, he could see the wooden signpost with a knife and fork engraved into it above the name _Hors Piste_. “How about we stop there, you can get dry, we can grab some food, and then I’ll help you ‘board down to the chalet and won’t pester you again. You can spend the rest of the week in the hot tub or lounging around the chalet in just your pants. Whatever tickles your fancy.”

Draco stared at him, wondering what the catch was, but there didn’t seem to be one; Harry was being genuinely nice. He still had no plans to ever reattach himself to the snowboard, but he wasn’t going to argue with warming up in a bar, or spending the rest of the week in the hot tub for that matter.

*

The bar was small, dark, and wooden. Very wooden. It seemed to have grown out directly from the mountain. The walls were hung with old-fashioned skis, snowshoes, and icepicks, as well as some more recent items, and there was a faded winter Olympics poster from Vancouver 2010 beside the bar. It could generously be described as cosy, but Draco thought claustrophobic was more apt. It felt like it had been built for a species a good foot or two shorter than the average human, but at least it was warm and dry. Harry led him to a table tucked into the corner beneath a rickety old toboggan. There wasn’t space for them to sit opposite each other, or even kitty-corner, because the tables were positioned so close together and it was already quite crowded, so he slid onto the bench beside Harry and tried not to feel too awkward about it.

As Draco was peeling off his outer layers, a pleasantly smiling waitress brought them a couple of menus and he was so relieved that there was table service, he didn’t even care that his hair was plastered unattractively to his head or that his clothes clung damply to his skin.

Harry ordered them a _vin chaud_ each before Draco’d had a chance to even glance at the menu. He raised an eyebrow in question as the waitress walked away and Harry just shrugged. “May as well start as we mean to go on,” he said, and that actually sounded like a good idea.

Conversation between them was initially stilted, but as the wine slowly warmed Draco from the inside, dulling the persistent throb in his limbs, his inhibitions loosened sufficiently that he was able to start properly enjoying himself. Harry was warm and funny, his eyes bright with humour and his cheeks deliciously flushed, and his presence captured Draco’s entire attention. He barely even noticed the bar steadily filling with the lunchtime crowd then thinning out again as the afternoon progressed. Food turned up that Draco didn’t remember ordering, but which he ate readily enough, and the wine kept flowing. After a few hours, he was feeling pleasantly sated and sluggish. The fire was warm, the murmur of voices and the clink of glassware and cutlery was soothing. Condensation blurred the view out of the window behind them. It was like being in a little bubble, him and Harry, trapped together, safe from the prying eyes of the world. It wasn’t until he got up to use the bathroom that he realised how drunk he was, or how every inch of his body still ached.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked as Draco collapsed heavily back into his seat, his legs somehow managing to be simultaneously stiff and wobbly. Their wine glasses had been replenished again, Draco noticed, and there was a fresh charcuterie board on the table. Clearly, Harry was in no rush to head off, and Draco was in no rush to remind him they should be getting back.

“Fine. It’s just my body reminding me what a fool I was for listening to you.”

Harry huffed out a soft laugh, shaking his head. He’d taken his ridiculous hat off at some point and his hair was even more wild than usual. Draco’s fingers itched to tidy it up a bit, but he wasn’t yet that drunk that he’d completely lost control of his impulses.

“So, why’d you come?” Harry asked.

Draco blinked, suddenly realising he’d been staring a little too long at Harry’s hair. “What?”

“Why’d you come on holiday with us if you hate skiing and snowboarding so much?”

“Oh…” The truth was, Draco wasn’t sure. When Harry’s owl had turned up at Draco’s office window—his first tentative foray into some sort of friendship—way back in September, Draco had almost tossed the letter away without reading just by force of habit. It was a long time since he’d actively hated Harry, but still, even with their sons being as close as they were, they’d never really moved beyond polite indifference. Scorpius was the sole reason he read the letter, but in the end, he supposed he’d agreed to the trip because he thought Harry was right, in a way—they should make more of an effort to be friends, for the sake of their sons. He was much more secure in his relationship with Scorpius than Harry evidently was with Albus, but as a father, he understood what Harry was trying to achieve. And then there was the other contributing factor… Perhaps even the main reason he’d acquiesced, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. The little eleven year old boy that still resided in the depths of his mind and who just wanted to be Harry’s friend; the fourteen year old who’d had some very confusing dreams about a certain speccy-faced twat and desperately wanted his attention; the seventeen year old who would dream every night of that dramatic rescue from the Room of Hidden Things, the curve of Harry’s back and the way it fitted against his chest with his arms securely wrapped around Harry’s middle. Harry was the first person who’d completely consumed his every thought, long before he’d met Astoria, and before Scorpius had come into his life. How could he turn down an offer to holiday with him, to finally become friends? Merlin knew how isolated he’d found himself since Astoria’s passing. Getting to know Harry better… well, it could be just what he needed. No one had ever challenged him or riled him quite as much as Harry. It could be a very interesting friendship.

Of course, he didn’t want Harry to know any of this. “Well, what you said made sense, about making an effort for the sake of the boys. They clearly won’t be parted any time soon, so I imagine it would be good if we could at least get along without trying to hex each other.”

An odd expression flickered across Harry’s face, his brows drawing together for a split second “So you just came for Scorpius?”

“Yes, I suppose. What reason would I have to come if he wasn’t here?”

Harry nodded fractionally. “Right. Of course.” He shifted in his seat, shuffling along the bench a little way, before grabbing a cocktail stick and poking at the olives on the platter in front of them. 

Draco shivered as the cold seeped into the space Harry had now created between them. It wasn’t much distance, but it was enough that Draco could no longer leach his body heat. He hadn’t even noticed how close they’d been sitting before, but now it felt like a chasm had opened up between them. He couldn’t work out what he’d said wrong, though. Why did Harry now look like Draco had beheaded his favourite stuffed toy? All he’d done was agree with Harry’s reasons for him joining them on their family holiday. He hadn’t— _Ah._ Realisation had been slow coming, but now it slapped him across the face.

“I suppose I… There is a chance, I mean, that I also wanted to get to know you better—not for the boys, but for me. I’ve told you before, but it’s very lonely being Draco Malfoy, and I think you’re one of the few people who actually understands what that’s like.” It felt uncomfortable, speaking so honestly in such a public place, and he doubted he’d have said anything if it hadn’t been for the alcohol loosening his lips, but when Harry turned away from the olives and blinked owlishly at him, mouth ever so slightly agape, Draco knew it had been worth it. 

Harry smiled, small and pleased, then ducked his head and took a sip of wine. And maybe it was a trick of the light, but Draco could have sworn his cheeks looked a little flushed. Well. That was an interesting development.

“I do,” Harry agreed quietly. “I do know what it’s like. And I’m glad we can get to know each other better.” 

Silence descended, the twin confessions heavy in the air. The bar was almost empty now, making the silence all the more stark. 

Draco stared into the ruby-red depths of his drink, absently twisting the stem of the glass between his thumb and forefinger. Merlin, but he was becoming soft in his advancing age. First, those admissions on their first night in the chalet, and now this. What next? Would they start plaiting each other’s hair?

“I… I was truly sorry when I heard about Astoria,” Harry said after a few minutes had passed.

Draco started, surprised by the change in topic, but then he supposed it wasn’t that much of a leap to from loneliness to… his wife. He smiled, wistful, imagining what Astoria would say if she could see him now. “Yes, well. As was I.” He huffed a faint laugh. It still hurt to think about her, but he was now better at focusing on their life together, rather than the horridly unfair ending. “She was too kind for this world. I’m endlessly proud of how she lives on in Scorpius; in his joy, his kindness, his unconcealed excitement about the most ridiculous of things.” He shook his head, a broad smile coming unbidden to his lips as he thought about his son. They may not have had a traditional marriage, and they had both sought occasional comfort in the beds of those more suited to their preferences, but they had been happy together as a family, and she’d been his best friend for a long time.

Harry beamed right back at him and Draco’s heart tripped over itself. “He’s a great kid. Really. I can see why Albus likes him so much.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s crazy how much he looks like you, you know. Except for the smiling. You were never big on that.”

“Maybe because whenever you saw me, I’d just seen your ugly face and I had to stop myself from throwing up.”

“Harsh words, old man.” Harry nudged him with his shoulder, laughing, and it shouldn’t have felt like anything more than a friendly jostle, but the sensation of having Harry’s warmth back, having him back in Draco’s space, filled him with a sudden burst of desire. It felt wrong, to be thinking of his dead wife in one moment and lusting after Harry in the next, but he could never deny the power Harry had over him. He leant into the touch, not willing to let Harry increase the distance between them again, and they sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, no doubt looking ridiculous; two pissed up forty-somethings with frostbitten cheeks, practically sitting on top of each other in a piste-side bar.

“I think we’re gonna be great friends, you and me,” Harry said eventually, leaning more heavily into Draco’s side. 

“Hmm, we’ll see,” Draco replied, his voice a lazy drawl.

Harry sniggered into his glass and then rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. “Fuck, I’m drunker than I thought.”

Draco felt the solid weight of Harry’s head thunk onto his shoulder and, after a moment’s consideration, extracted his arm from where it had been crushed between them, and tentatively laid it over Harry’s shoulders. He felt Harry tense, just for a second, before he melted into the one-armed embrace and shuffled ever so slightly closer. 

Draco let out a breath. When he turned his head, Harry was looking up at him with an unreadable expression on his face, watching him intently. Draco watched him back, his eyes skittering over Harry’s face as he searched for any clue as to what was going on. 

“You should smile more. It suits you. Makes you look less like a stuck-up twat.” 

Draco couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing, hugging Harry closer and burying his nose in his hair. Fuck, what was this man doing to him? He breathed in deeply. The fruity scent of Harry’s shampoo mixed with the warm musky smell of his head, of _Harry,_ was more intoxicating than all the wine he’d consumed that afternoon.

He felt a warm pressure on his leg—Harry’s hand—gently stroking, the movements stilted at first, but growing bolder when Draco didn’t object. He shifted minutely in his seat, easing his legs wider to reduce the growing pressure he could feel at his groin. _Fuck_. 

“Désolé, on ferme. Bar closing. Drink up!”

The barman’s voice carried clearly through the small bar, and Draco jerked upright. He hadn’t even realised how much he’d been slouching. Shit. What must they have looked like? He looked up to see that he and Harry were some of the last people in the bar, but thankfully their table was tucked away in a corner so maybe, _hopefully,_ no one had noticed Harry’s wandering hand. Merlin, fuck. How embarrassing. 

“We should probably head back,” Harry mumbled without looking at Draco. 

“I hardly think there’s another option, unless you intend to set up camp under a table,” Draco snapped, embarrassment colouring his tone. He just wanted to be out of there. What had he been thinking, letting Harry feel him up _in a public place?_

“Ha bloody ha.” Harry shoved his arms into the sleeves of his coat and zipped it up to his chin.

While Draco struggled with reapplying all his layers of outerwear, Harry flipped open the bill which had appeared on the table at some point—Draco could only hope it had turned up before he and Harry started _snuggling_—and counted out a handful of Euros. “Meet you outside,” he said, tucking the money into the black leather bill holder and dropping it onto the table. 

Not to be outdone, Draco added his own sum to the bill, more than doubling what Harry left. He felt it was the least he could do after they’d been sat in the bar all afternoon. And had possibly traumatised everyone still present by acting like a pair of horny teenagers.

*

A gust of bitterly cold air hit him as soon as he exited the bar, and he fumbled his wand out of his pocket to cast a hasty warming charm over himself. The sky had become overcast in the time they’d spent hidden indoors and it looked like there would be a fresh dump of snow overnight. It could snow as much as it liked once he made it back to the chalet because he had no plans to leave once he got there. He intended to make full use of that hot tub over the next few days.

Harry was sat in the snow, a short distance from the bar, with his head in his hands. Their snowboards were dug into the snowbank behind him, just where they’d left them, sticking out of the white like garish tombstones. Draco trudged towards him on unsteady legs, mortification morphing to disappointment and then irritation as he took in Harry’s dejected figure. He faltered. If ever there was a more apt visualisation of a man who regretted his previous actions, he’d not yet witnessed it. He had half a mind to ignore Harry completely and just find his own way down the mountain because _he_ had come onto _Draco,_ not the other way around. It had been Harry who’d cuddled up to him, Harry who’d been attempting to fondle Draco’s balls _in public._ So how dare he sit there looking like the world had ended? At the very least he should be apologising. Or offering to finish the job somewhere more private.

Fucking Potter. 

Draco pushed aside the small part of him that was feeling a little hurt by the obvious rejection, and he focused instead on his anger. Merlin, but it had been a long time since he’d been so roundly discarded. He hated himself for thinking even for a second that maybe Harry had been interested. Clearly, he was just a handsy drunk. There was no way he’d share a bed with that prick now. He’d force him to bunk in with Scorpius and Al.

Draco’s approach obviously wasn’t as stealthy as he’d hoped because as he drew closer, still in two minds about whether to leave Harry there or not, Harry stood up, nodding vaguely in his direction. He brushed the snow off his legs and grabbed his snowboard, dropping it to the floor at his feet and stamping his leading foot into the bindings. He didn’t make eye contact once, and Draco bristled.

“Nearest lift is back down that track and then at the bottom of that blue run. You think you’ll be able to make it?”

Fine. So they wouldn’t be talking about it. That suited Draco perfectly. There was nothing he enjoyed more than ignoring awkward situations. “I’m not an invalid,” he snapped, copying Harry’s actions—though with a little less finesse—and fastening just his leading foot into the bindings.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody well sure. What’s the alternative? Apparating? I don’t know about you but I’d rather not end up splinched or crushed beneath a ton of snow.”

Harry pursed his lips. Exhaled through his nose. “Excuse me for caring. We could, I don’t know, walk? Or…”

“’Or,’” Draco mimicked, knowing he sounded childish, but fuck it. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry muttered, pushing off down the track. He might have said a few more things too, but Draco chose not to hear them.

*

It was a slow and excruciatingly painful process getting to the chairlift, but eventually it came into view and Draco felt the knot of tension in his chest loosen. It had started snowing during their descent. Large, fluffy flakes that fell intermittently; a teasing glimpse of what would likely come later. Draco willed it to hold off for just half an hour more. By then, he should be securely ensconced within the chalet, preferably with a steaming mug of Lorenzo’s cocoa.

A group of skiers shot past, snow kicking up from their skis as they skidded to a halt at the lift. There was a brief exchange with the lift attendant, before they took off again, and Draco didn’t think any more of it besides idly wondering what they’d spoken about, but as he and Harry drew closer to the lift, Draco noticed a barrier had been pulled across the gates with a rather worrying _FERMÉ_ sign hanging off it.

“English?” the attendant said once they were close enough, and Draco bridled at his assumption, wondering what it was about them that exuded that air. Harry nodded before Draco could ask for clarification, though, and the man continued in a thick French accent, tone dripping with Gallic indifference. “Lift closed. Go down that blue to the main station or follow that red onto the black to get down the mountain.” 

“The lift is right there, clearly still working. Can’t you just let us get on?” Draco asked, irritated by the man’s assumption of his Britishness.

The attendant shrugged. “Closed, sorry.” 

“Oh, for—” Before Draco could get started on his admonishment, Harry grabbed his arm and yanked him away with a wave and a ‘Sorry, mate’, to the attendant.

Draco had no choice but to stumble awkwardly after Harry, almost tripping over both his and Harry’s snowboards. “What do you think you’re doing? Unhand me this instant.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to yank his arm from Harry’s grip.

“Could you shut up for two seconds?”

They were standing in the tree line now, the chairlift hidden from view, and he finally succeeded in pulling away from Harry. He clenched his jaw but didn’t say anything. His entire body ached, he was cold, his head was spinning from the alcohol, and he just wanted to get back to the chalet and get a bit of space from Harry shitting Potter and his stupid fucking hat. 

“Right. Thanks. As I see it, we don’t have many options—”

“You think?” Draco snapped, unable to help himself in the face of Harry’s limitless ability to state the bloody obvious.

Harry ignored him. “Obviously, the quick way—down the red and black—is out. So, ideally, we shoot down the blue to the gondola station, quick as we can. I think it goes down into the wrong bit of the valley, but at least we’ll be down the mountain. We’d, um. We’d have to be quick, though. Do you think…?”

“Oh just come out and say it, Potter. You don’t think I’m fast enough. You think I’m going to get us stuck up this bloody mountain all night. Well, fuck you. This is your fault. I _told_ you I didn’t want to come out today. I was quite happy to stay at the chalet, but oh no, Saint Potter knows better than me—”

“Calm the fuck down, will you? Jesus Christ. I forgot how melodramatic you could be.”

“I’m not being melodramatic! I’m about to be stranded on a fucking mountain!”

Harry glared at him, Draco glared back. Anger, frustration, and panic churned within him and his eyes prickled with tears that he refused to let fall. He turned from Harry before the emotion became too obvious on his face and stared down the blue run, which might be their only hope. There had to be another way down the mountain. They couldn’t _really_ be stranded. He was torn between wanting Harry to save them and needing him to fuck off. Merlin, but this never would have happened with anyone else. Why did he come on this stupid holiday?

“Okay, okay, hear me out,” Harry said. Draco whipped his head round to find Harry looking past him, back towards the chairlift, his brows drawn together in concentration. “I have a possible solution. Well, two, really—”

“Go on then, spit it out.” Draco had little patience at the best of times, so he wasn’t going to stand for Harry bumbling around a topic for half an hour before giving him a straight answer. 

“Alright. Well, we can either sit here until one of us sobers up enough to Apparate—fuck the avalanche risk—or…”

Draco’s eyebrows crept up his forehead as Harry explained his ridiculously simple idea. It was so obvious, so easy, he could just kiss the man! That hot tub would soon be his.

*

No more than five minutes later, Draco was sat on the chairlift beside Harry, their snowboards shrunk down and stuffed into their pockets. The edges of the Auror-strength disillusionment charm Harry had cast over them shimmered, imperceptible to any Muggle who might glance in their direction. Hopefully, no one would notice the way one chair dipped a little lower than its neighbours, though, as that was something they couldn’t control. In the end, the attendant had been so busy chatting with the other person manning the station, Draco suspected they could have strolled right past without the aid of magic, but he hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

A snowflake tickled his cheek, and he noticed that the snow was starting to fall more thickly now; enough that it was obscuring the view of the village in the distance. Thank Merlin they were on the chairlift. Just a few more minutes. He cast another warming charm, grudgingly making the bubble of warm air wide enough that it encompassed Harry too since he was still maintaining the disillusionment charm. Now that they were on their way down the mountain, Draco found his earlier irritation slipping away to a dull ebb in the back of his mind. He was still pissed off with Harry, still felt the sting of rejection when he glanced out of the corner of his eye at him, but soon they’d be back at the chalet and he could start putting this nightmare behind him. He might even make up an excuse for leaving for home early. Scorpius was welcome to stay, of course, but the thought of having to spend another few days with Harry, having to sleep in the same bed as Harry… no. It wasn’t worth it. 

Draco closed his eyes, shutting out everything else around him—including the knowledge that Harry was next to him—and visualised the hot tub. The snow no longer reached him, fizzling out at the boundary of his charm, and so it was easy enough to block everything out. He imagined sinking into the water, letting the jets and bubbles massage his sore arse and aching muscles. He’d have Lorenzo fetch him another glass of red, maybe a slice of cake too—

And then the lift juddered to a halt and each of Draco’s hopes for a rapid resolution to this situation shattered with every bouncing swing of the chair.

He snapped his eyes open, momentarily disoriented as snow swirled thickly around them, buffeting the edges of his warming charm and reducing visibility to a couple of metres, if that.

“What the—?”

“Bollocks,” Harry muttered.

Draco looked around, eyes narrowed. That wasn’t the exclamation of a man who knew nothing about their new predicament. “Would you care to elaborate?” he asked, willing his voice calm while his heart raced a mile a minute because _what fresh hell was this??_. 

“It… it appears they’ve turned the chair lift off.”

“Yes. That does appear to be a correct assumption, since _we’re not fucking moving._ Would you mind enlightening me as to why?” It was taking every last bit of will power not to just reach out and wring Harry’s scrawny neck. Why did this sort of thing always happen whenever Harry was around? Life was never simple with him. 

“Because it’s the end of the day? The guy did say it was closed, so,” he shrugged, as if it hadn’t been Harry’s idea that they sneak on here in the first place. “Sometimes they turn them off in bad weather too, I think.” 

“Circe save me.” Draco exhaled and turned his eyes skyward. “We should have just walked or snowboarded down. Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“You were the one whinging about being stranded on a mountain! I just suggested a way out—no one forced you to take it.”

“Yes, but you didn't tell me they turned these things off! If I'd been equipped with all the information I could have made an informed decision!”

“Bloody hell, Malfoy. For one, you said you’d been skiing before so I assumed you’d know about this sort of thing, and two; we never would have made it to that gondola in time, not with you as drunk as you are. I mean, you’re a danger on the slopes when sober. You'd have shot off the side of the mountain or something, so I was doing you a favour. I just… I thought we'd have a bit more time to get down before they switched the fucking thing off.”

“Well, it should have been my decision to make. Now, instead of a quick death off the side of a mountain, I'm subjected to a slow death beside you as we both freeze our bollocks off.”

Harry sighed, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “We're not going to freeze, you idiot. Wizards, remember?” He wiggled his fingers, although the movement was lost somewhat in the thick gloves he was wearing. Draco rolled his eyes.

“Have you tried to maintain a warming charm all night? Whilst maintaining a disillusionment charm? Whilst trying not to fall asleep and plummet to your death?” 

“We won't be here all night, Draco,” Harry said, his voice infuriatingly calm and level. “Just until I'm sober enough to Apparate us back. Or perhaps until they turn on the lifts to gather them in the station at the bottom.”

“They do that?”

“I don't know? Maybe? But hey, look on the positive side, if it keeps snowing like this, we won’t need the Disillusionment charm.” Harry grinned, and for the second time in five minutes, Draco had to fight the urge to strangle him. Instead, he scoffed and did his best with his limited space to turn his back on Harry before he did something he might later regret. Like accidentally elbowing him off the chair. 

This was turning into the longest day of his life.

*

“We should probably send a Patronus to let the kids know we won’t be back until later,” Harry said after a short while.

Draco grunted in affirmation but didn’t look around. As much as he was loathe to admit it, that wasn’t a bad idea. Scorpius would worry terribly if he wasn’t back soon. When no Patronus appeared, though, he turned, only to find Harry looking at him slightly sheepishly. “What?”

“Do you think you could do it? Only, mines a little…” He paused, gestured with his hands, “You know, big. I don’t want to get into trouble with the French authorities when a huge stag bursts out of the blizzard into a crowd of Muggles.”

“What’s to say my Patronus isn’t big too. I might have a dragon for all you know.”

“Wow, do you? Really?” Harry asked, his eyes wide, and Draco was surprised to note that he wasn’t able to detect even a drop of sarcasm in Harry’s voice. 

Damn him. “No,” he mumbled. “But you shouldn’t just assume yours is bigger.” He looked away, unable to take the open fondness in Harry’s face. What was he playing at? One minute he couldn’t even look Draco in the eye, and then next he was… he was _staring_ at him like they were old friends or… or something. He mentally shook the oddness away. Harry was far too confusing of an individual to try and make sense of now. 

“Oh!” Harry said wrapping his gloved hand around Draco’s wrist as he reached for his wand. “We could tell them we’re stuck—maybe Lorenzo could come over and Side-Along us back to the chalet? Oh! Or—” he rattled Draco’s with more urgency, “—I could try summoning Lorenzo here! Lorenzo? Lorenzo!” 

Draco rolled his eyes and shook Harry’s hand off his arm. Still drunk and handsy, it seemed. “Only the master of the house can Summon a house-elf like that, Harry. Surely you know that.”

“Yes, obviously,” Harry replied, although the darkening of his cheeks suggested that this was something of a lie. “I thought, since I was the—sorry— _one_ of the responsible adults, then Lorenzo would, I don’t know. Recognise me?” 

“I imagine Lorenzo recognises Louis as in-residence master since he’s the only one of us blood-related to the Delacours.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. Well, it was worth a try.”

Draco sighed and cast his Patronus, telling the glowing white Pomeranian to inform Scorpius that he’d been held up and not to worry. “Not a word,” he ground out at the sound of Harry’s sniggers.

“Why didn’t you ask them to send help?” Harry asked once he’d recovered himself.

“And let Scorpius know his father got drunk and then was stupid enough to get stuck on a chairlift? I’d rather take my chances up here, thank you.”

Harry let out a frustrated groan and dropped his head forward. “I suppose you’re right. Merlin’s balls. James will never let me forget this if he finds out. Lily too. Even Albus. It could be the first time they all actually agree on something. Shit. After all my talk of mountain safety and behaving responsibly too…” He groaned again. “I deserve their ridicule.”

“I find that hard to argue with.”

Harry chuckled. “By the way, I like your puppy.”

“Shut it.”

*

It would have been quite peaceful, in a way, being trapped on the chairlift, having nothing to do except sit and mull things over in the fading light. The blizzard hadn’t let up in the slightest, muffling all but the most immediate sounds so there were no distractions. Well. No distractions except the sound of Harry’s intermittent sighing; the dull _tink tink tink_ as he kicked the footrest with his toe; the constant rustle of his jacket because the man could _not_ sit still for more than two seconds at a time. And then there was the constant awkward small talk because as well as being a handsy drunk, Harry was also apparently a chatty drunk. All Draco wanted was some time to get his thoughts in order; time to work out whether this friendship, or alliance, with Harry was worth the awkwardness of moving past whatever had happened in the bar. So, yes. It would have been peaceful being trapped on the chairlift, if it hadn’t been for who he was trapped with.

He thought they’d been getting on so well—they’d managed to sleep in the same bed without hexing each other for two nights in row, for fuck’s sake—but then Harry had to go and ruin everything by getting drunk and cuddly and stroking bits of Draco that should definitely not be stroked in public. Draco couldn’t work out if it would have been better or worse if the barman hadn’t interrupted when he did. How far would they have gone? He’d spent so much of his life desperate for Harry’s attention, and then to have it fleetingly—to be given a glimpse of what could be and then have that taken away… He wished he had even half a clue about what was going on in Harry’s head. He claimed he wanted to be friends, acted in a way that Draco would have called more than friendly coming from anyone else, and then he freaked out as soon as things went a little too far. It was infuriating. 

Time wore on and Draco began to marvel at Harry’s ability to chatter about anything and everything. Granted, there were a few topics that kept repeating—Quidditch, his kids, Granger and Weasley’s joint cookery lessons—but Draco never tired of hearing about any of it. He felt the equilibrium slowly being restored between them and it was… nice. Harry had dropped the Disillusionment charm shortly after Draco had sent the Patronus and they were now taking turns with the warming charm, Harry’s magic seamlessly blending with his own as their spells overlapped.

“So, have you dated anyone recently? What’s your type?” Harry asked during a lull in the conversation that happened after they’d covered Quidditch league predictions for the fourth time.

Draco blinked, a little taken aback by the bluntness of the question. This entire time they’d kept clear of anything too personal. An unvoiced agreement to avoid anything that might force them to acknowledge what almost happened. What was Harry playing at?

“If you’re trying to set me up with someone, let me stop you right now. I’m not so lonely that I need pity dates,” he drawled, hopefully masking his unease with boredom.

“Come on, everyone I know is either paired off or far too young. If I had someone to set you up with then chances are, I’d take them for myself.” Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Just answer the bloody question. It’s not like we’ve got much else to do before one of us is sober enough to Apparate.” 

Draco considered putting up more of a fight, but really, it was far easier just to go along with it. He wasn’t going to go easily, though. “Fine. You go first, then. What’s your type. No, wait. Let me guess. Ginger, prolific breeder, sporty, pert breasts…” 

Harry barked out a laugh and elbowed Draco in the side. “Fuck off, you shit. Wait, you think Ginny has nice tits?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to hit Harry, who let out a very satisfying yelp. “That’s really not my area of expertise.”

“Yeah? I always kind of assumed you liked both. Well, no. I’d always assumed you had an exclusive preference for one over the other, and then recently—very recently, in fact—I thought perhaps there was a chance you liked both.”

Draco wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take offence. He couldn't believe how direct Harry was being. He opened his mouth, a retort ready on his tongue, but then Harry was staring at him with such open curiosity he found himself answering before he could engage his brain. “Ah, well, I suppose I have dabbled with both, but my firm preference has always been for… men.”

“Oh.” Harry chewed his lip, staring briefly into the void of nothingness swirling around them. “Me too. The both thing. But it’s more fifty-fifty for me, I guess. I’m not really sure. I’m only just learning about these things.”

_Interesting._ “Go on then, what’s your type? What do you look for in a partner?”

Harry huffed out a laugh. “Okay, let’s see. I’m new to this dating thing, so it may take me a while.” He rubbed the fingers of a gloved hand over his lips. “I guess I don’t have a particular type looks-wise. I wouldn’t want someone who is put off or wowed by my name. I need someone who can give as good as they get, someone who is unapologetic about who they are, who knows what they want. Someone who won’t sell me out to the press the second things turn sour…” Harry tapered off, staring blindly into the swirling blizzard again.

“Have you ever thought about dating Muggles?” Draco wasn’t sure where that question even came from. Did he _want_ to encourage Harry to date more?

“What do _you_ know about dating Muggles?” Harry’s disbelieving tone lanced straight to the part of him that couldn’t bear to lose face, especially where Harry was concerned. Who was he to doubt Draco’s knowledge about Muggles? Suddenly he found himself blurting out things he’d never told another soul

“Not many people know this but Astoria and I, we had an… arrangement. As long as we were discreet and kept things casual, we each allowed the other our dalliances on the side. Our marriage was one of convenience, our love platonic rather than romantic. I never begrudged her needing to scratch that itch, since she clearly wasn’t getting it from me, and she never begrudged me the same. It may not have been conventional, but it worked for us, and Scorpius was none the wiser.”

Harry gaped at him. “But… how does that explain the Muggles?”

“How else do you think I kept things out of the papers? You’re not the only one who could risk having all their naughty secrets sold to the Prophet by consorting with the wrong witch or wizard.” 

Harry stared at him for a moment, apparently dumbfounded, but then he laughed, the sound big and far too bright for the gloomy snowy hell they’d found themselves in. “Draco Malfoy, you saucy thing. You used to prowl the Muggle nightclubs for one night stands? Sweet, merciful Merlin, this might be the best thing I’ve ever heard.” Harry wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his glove while Draco seethed. “Do you still do it?”

“I fail to see how that’s any business of yours.”

“Aw, come on. We’re sharing! And this is the most interesting thing I’ve heard all day.” He broke off, shaking his head, a smile still playing at his lips. “Malfoy in a Muggle club,” he murmured. “Ron would have a fit.”

Draco sat up straight, suddenly scared. Was Harry going to repeat everything he’d said to his little minions? Merlin, what else had he said? Had Harry already owled the transcripts of all the previous day’s conversations to the Prophet? “You can’t tell him. You can’t tell anyone!” Draco said, wincing at the desperation that had leached into his voice.

“What? Of course I’m not going to tell anyone. You think I’m taking notes to report back to my friends?”

He shrunk back into his seat feeling suitably admonished. It sounded rather far-fetched and petty hearing his own thoughts spilling from Harry’s mouth. “I’m not sure what to think,” he said quietly. Not an apology, but as close as Harry was going to get right now. “You owl me out of nowhere, invite me on this holiday, make me share a bed with you—”

“—to be fair, that _was_ James’s idea—” Harry interjected.

“—and then…_manhandle_ me in the bar before pretending it never happened. It’s… it’s very confusing. Forgive me if I’m not certain about your motives!” 

“Ah. Yeah. If you put it like that…” Harry hung his head and fiddled with the velcro strap on his glove. “Look, I… I’m not sure, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is… is that I really do want us to be friends, but… it’s difficult.”

Draco pursed his lips, ignoring the sudden, crushing tightness in his chest. “Right. I understand.” He didn’t, not really. But he wasn’t about to beg Harry for anything. Circe, but it felt like he’d been Incarcerused. What was wrong with him? He’d barely even entertained the notion that he and Harry could be anything more than passing acquaintances. It shouldn’t feel so painful to have that taken away. They were ex-schoolyard rivals who were forced to acknowledge each other’s existence only because their sons were friends. Nothing more. If it wasn’t for that… 

“Draco, stop spiralling,” Harry’s hand was back on his arm and with his other hand, he gently tilted Draco’s chin and forced him to look him in the eye. “It’s not difficult because I don’t want anything to do with you, it’s difficult because I… I want _too much_ to do with you. And I’m scared because what if it all goes wrong? What if we step over that line and you end up hating me? I mean, I don’t even know if you like me back and I’ve already made a drunken idiot of myself.”

Draco was speechless. He’d thought he’d experienced speechlessness before, but not on this scale. He thought his heart might actually have stopped at some point. Maybe this was what death was like. Merlin, there was a blush on his cheeks so deep, he swore he could feel steam coming off them. “You… like me?”

Harry huffed out a laugh. “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been an awkward mess around you since you got here—I practically threw myself at you back in that bar. You’re fucking gorgeous and it’s bloody impossible being so close to you, spending all this time with you, sleeping in the same bed, for Christ’s sake, and not being able to touch you.”

“Oh.” It was a woefully inadequate reply to a rather startling confession. Draco scrambled for something more eloquent to say. “Well. I thought you were just a bit of a handsy drunk. You might be like that with all your friends, for all I know.”

“If I was like that with all my friends, you’d no doubt have read about it in the paper. And Ginny would have probably divorced me much sooner.”

A happy, smug warmth blossomed in Draco’s chest. Harry _liked_ him. He felt like a giddy teen finding out their crush liked them. Although there was a small part of him that was convinced this was all some crazy dream brought on by severe hypothermia. 

“So, where do you go?” Harry asked, drawing Draco’s attention back to him.

“Hmm?” 

“When you go out prowling for Muggles. Where do you go?

“Why? Would you want to come along?” Draco snorted, thoroughly amused by the idea. 

Harry bit his lip, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He tilted his head to the side. “Maybe. I could be persuaded.” 

Draco stilled. Was he _serious?_ Images of him and Harry dancing together in Muggle gay clubs flooded his mind. His stomach somersaulted as the images morphed into fantasies he’d had. The pair of them as young men, grinding together in the middle of a crowded dance floor as if no one could see them. “Maybe next time I go out, I’ll invite you, then.” 

“Good. Maybe I’ll say yes.”

_Oh._ Draco swallowed thickly.

“What do you wear?” Harry asked.

“What?” Draco’s mind was still miles away in Eden, the club he’d frequented as a younger man. 

“When you visit these clubs to prey on unsuspecting Muggles—” he snorted out a laugh at Draco’s affronted ‘hey!’ “—what do you wear? I mean, before yesterday, I’d never seen you in anything other than those fancy wizard robes or some ridiculously expensive suit. Is that what you wear to pull?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Draco scoffed. “For starters, those robes are far too hot for a club. No. I…” He paused, unsure how much to reveal, but then decided he’d rather like to see Harry’s expression when he described some of the more …risque outfits he’d worn on occasion. “Well, usually, I wear something simple, like a tight pair of jeans and a fitted shirt or plain t-shirt.” He preened as Harry’s eyes flicked over his body as if he could imagine the outfit beneath the thick ski jacket and salopettes. “If the occasion calls for it, though, I have been known to wear a loose purple crop top over a pair of black leather hot pants.” Okay, so he’d worn that outfit exactly once at Pansy’s behest because she demanded he wear something that revealed at least as much skin as she was, and he’d only been twenty-three, but the lie of omission was worth it to see Harry look like he was choking on his tongue. 

“Consider me persuaded,” Harry muttered. He shifted on his seat and the chair bounced on the wire. Draco had almost forgotten where they were. “You, er, you still wear that?” he asked gruffly.

“Merlin, no. I'm over forty and have had a desk job for the past twenty years. I’m not wearing leather hot pants in public.”

“But… you'll wear them in private?” Harry smirked, and suddenly the atmosphere around them thickened, hot and heavy.

Draco’s heart was in his throat. “...what are you asking?”

“Come on, Draco. You can't tell a lonely, sex-starved man with a self-confessed interest in your body that you have leather hot pants and then not expect any follow up questions.”

“Lonely _and_ sex-starved. You’re quite the catch.” Draco paused, playing the next words around his head before just blurting them out anyway. “Would… would you like to see them?”

“Fuck, yes. Merlin, what are you doing to me?” Harry pressed a hand to his groin, whimpering, and Draco groaned involuntarily. He needed to touch him. And touch him _now_ or… or something horrendously embarrassing like a burst of uncontrolled, accidental magic would erupt from his hands and incinerate a tree. Already he could feel it crackling, pulsing inside, urging him to act. He shuddered and subtly tried to shift his position to relieve the pressure in his trousers. Whoever invented salopettes didn't take inconvenient semi-hard dicks into account.

He wasn’t a brave or foolhardy Gryffindor, but he _was_ drunk, so, summoning all his available courage and wrapping it in a thick layer of desire, he carefully extended a hand towards Harry. He’d taken his gloves off a while ago now, and a faint tremor was visible in his fingers, but thankfully Harry wasn’t looking at his hand. No, for better or worse, Harry was staring at him, green eyes now almost black in the low light as he studied Draco’s face, his mouth ajar. Gently, and fully expecting Harry to yelp and leap back at any second, Draco dropped his hand onto Harry’s thigh. It was a mirror of what Harry’d been trying to do in the bar, but this time there were no barmen to interrupt them, only the swirling vortex of snow crushing in on them as they dangled above a now-dark mountainside. There was a brief moment when he felt Harry’s leg tense, a barely-there flinch, nothing more than a muscle twitch, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat, certain he’d somehow read the situation wrong. Would Harry give any warning before reaching for his wand and hexing his nipples off or would he give him a chance to explain? _You were looking at me like you wanted to drill me through the floor, so I thought I’d touch up your leg. Okay?_

Harry didn’t yelp, though. He exhaled a shaky breath and spread his legs wider, knocking into the side of Draco’s thigh. His gaze was hooded and he nodded almost imperceptibly, unspoken permission for Draco to continue. Draco was temporarily frozen to the spot, though, the possibilities swirling around in his mind like the snow around their little bubble of warmth. Harry looked breathtaking—cheeks flushed, pupils blown, lower lip slick and plump from where he’d been chewing it—even with that ridiculous, cartoonish unicorn hat still perched on his head, and Draco had never been more turned on his life. He suddenly found he didn’t care about anything except getting his hands on Harry. He wanted to feel for himself what the mental image of Draco in hot pants was doing to him. He needed to know what thoughts of him did to Harry. 

Feeling confident from the lack of rejection, Draco slid his hand up, his hand gliding smoothly over the nylon of Harry’s snowboard trousers, moving closer to where he wanted to go. Harry groaned as Draco’s fingertips skittered across the bulge at his crotch. He slid a bit further forward in his seat, his leg pressing harder into Draco’s as he widened his stance as far as he could go. 

Draco increased the pressure, fully cupping Harry, rubbing him through his trousers. “Are you… Is this okay?” he asked breathlessly.

“More,” Harry ground up into Draco’s palm, his breaths heavier, faster. “Please. If you’re gonna do this, don’t tease me.”

“What if someone sees?”

“Fuck it, I don’t care”

Needing no more encouragement, Draco fumbled one-handedly with the poppers and zips of Harry’s trousers, before Harry batted him out for the way and opened them himself. Draco took a few moments to stare, taking in the thick dark thatch of hair; the soft, inviting patch of skin above it which had teased him only that morning; and, most importantly, the thick curve of Harry’s prick, precome glistening at its head. 

Draco swallowed once. Twice.

“Well, what are you waiting for? You need a written invitation?”

“Fuck you, Potter.”

“Later.”

Draco groaned and surged forward, cursing as his elbow clipped the lap bar. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care—he could work around it. 

His fingers curled around Harry’s straining erection. It felt hot and heavy in his hand, the skin silky soft. He tunnelled his fist, too loose to provide any relief, and pumped a few times, wanting to get a feel for Harry, test the weight in his hand. It had been a while since he’d touched another man like this and he didn’t want to fuck this up. 

“Hold on,” Harry grunted. 

Draco startled and made to move back to his side of the chairlift, but Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist and tugged him closer. He indicated for Draco to hold his hand out flat, palm facing up, then held his own hand above it, mouthing something Draco couldn’t make out. When he withdrew his hand Draco watched as a glob of lube unfurled on his palm like a transparent, slimy flower. He shuddered, biting back a groan at Harry’s casual display of power. Wandless lube—why hadn’t he bothered to learn that?

He returned his hand to Harry’s cock, watching his face intently, noting every twitch, every shudder as he picked up the pace, tightened his grip. Swiped a thumb over Harry’s glans. Snow continued to batter the edges of the warming charm, edges that now felt closer, sealing them in, It felt like they were the only two people left in the world.

"What… what about the boys?" Harry mumbled as he squirmed beneath Draco’s ministrations.

Draco let out a frustrated grunt. Stilled his hand. "What about them?” His stomach clenched.

"What if… what if this makes things weird? What if you hate me after?”

"Merlin, Harry. Don't be so bloody soft. It's only going to be awkward if you make it awkward. We're grown men.” He resumed stroking Harry’s cock, hoping to put an end to Harry’s doubts by wiping his mind of all thought. 

"Yes but… fucking hell." Harry's head dropped back, thunking against the back of the chair and he slipped forward a touch more, frantically grabbing the armrest to stop from slipping too far.

The other hand grabbed the back of Draco's head, yanking him closer.

"You should know…" Harry grunted breathlessly. "I don't do casual." He pinned Draco with a heated gaze and Draco's hand faltered. What was Harry saying…? 

"You…?"

"Fucking kiss me, you twat.”

The chair swung precariously to and fro as Draco snapped out of his trance and launched himself at Harry; and everything after that was a blur of tongues and hands, of rustling fabric and the _ding_ of metal poppers and buckles hitting the frame of the chair. There wasn’t much room, but Draco managed to get one leg over Harry's, a teasing pressure on his own groin, not enough to get him off, but he didn't care. He just wanted to make Harry scream his name into the darkness. 

He laved his tongue along Harry's jaw, nipping at his neck, and when he felt Harry tense, when he knew Harry was about to come, he bit down, marking Harry with bruising kisses just as Harry marked his hand with stripes of come, Draco's name on his lips. 

Harry didn't do casual. And Harry wanted him.

"Bloody fuck, Malfoy,” Harry said, huffing out a breathy laugh. He looked limp, blissed out, and had a lazy grin plastered across his face. Reddening bruises were blooming on his neck.

Draco flushed, inordinately proud of himself for putting Harry in that state. “Pull yourself together, you ruffian. You'll slip out of the seat. And tuck yourself away before it freezes off. You'll be no use to me with a frostbitten knob.”

“Sure you could warm it up for me though.”

“Only if you're a good boy.”

"Fuck, Draco. If I was ten years younger we could go again right now. You can’t say things like that to me.”

Draco smirked and filed that knowledge away for later. Because there was definitely going to be a later. His erection throbbed in the confines of his salopettes and he absently adjusted himself. A couple of snowflakes drifted past his face and he suddenly realised how sharp the air felt, biting into his cheeks and the exposed flesh of his hands, faint clouds escaping their mouths with each exhalation.

"You want me to deal with that for you?” Harry, seemingly oblivious to the failing warming charm, was already leaning forward, reaching towards Draco’s groin, face like an over-eager puppy.

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, the chairlift jerked to life, jolting him forwards. They both looked down the slope and Draco realised, with growing horror, that the earlier blizzard had slowed to a trickle and that the lights of the village, and the much closer lights of the lift station, were now clearly visible. Shit.

He turned to Harry, panic clawing at his chest. “How are we going to explain our way out of this?”

“We’re not,” Harry muttered, grabbing Draco by the wrist. 

The next thing he knew, Draco felt the uncomfortable tug of Apparition, and the cosy living room of the Delacour chalet swirled into view.


	4. Lie to me, I love believing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song Greenwood by Banner Pilot

_SCORPIUS_

The wooden stairs creaked under Scorpius’s socked feet as he slowly crept up to the master bedroom. Albus was right behind him, clinging to the hem of his jumper, his breathing slow, careful. After his dad’s Patronus had appeared in the middle of tea to inform them that he and Harry would be out late, it hadn’t taken Scorpius much to convince Albus that they should sneak into their dads’ room to use the hot tub, but now they were actually doing it, Scorpius was having second thoughts. What if their dads came back suddenly? What if they hadn’t gone out at all and this was all a test? Would he open the door to find Mr Potter standing there, accusing finger pointed at Scorpius’s chest?

“Al, are you sure this is a good idea?” he hissed, one faintly trembling hand wrapped tightly around the doorknob. He couldn’t hear anything above the pounding of his heart in his chest, the blood rushing through his ears.

“What do you mean?” Albus hissed back. He had plastered his body against Scorpius, both now squashed into the narrow landing in front of the door. “This was your idea.”

“I know, but… I mean… it’s not like I haven’t made questionable decisions in the past. What if this is one of them? What if your dad is lying in wait? How will I get him to like me by breaking into his bedroom?” A thought occurred to him suddenly and he snatched his hand away from the handle. “Oh Merlin, what if they have wards set up and can tell we’re here? Why didn’t I think of that? Your dad was the head of the DMLE! He’s not going to just leave doors unlocked and unwarded willy nilly. Oh, sweet Circe, what have I done?”

Albus’s ran a hand up his back, coming to rest on Scorpius’s shoulder and squeezing. “Scorp, it’ll be fine, okay? Dad won’t have warded anything and he’s not trying to catch you out. He likes you, you idiot. Why do you think he invited you?”

Scorpius took a shaky breath, the comforting pressure of Albus’s hand slowly bringing him back from the brink of panic. He sagged, leant a little into Albus’s chest. “I honestly have no idea why he invited me, but if you say he likes me… well, I suppose I have no choice but to believe you.”

“Good. I won’t lie to you, Scorp, not ever.” Albus straightened and reached past Scorpius for the doorknob. “Now, let’s go find that hot tub. Okay?”

“Okay. Yes. Hot tub. Brilliant.” Scorpius nodded and shot Albus a grin over his shoulder, relieved he was taking charge. Albus was with him, so he could face anything. Even Harry Potter’s disapproval. 

The door opened without resistance and with barely a whisper, revealing… an ordinary bedroom. No angry fathers, no screaming wards. It was, unsurprisingly, much better appointed than Scorpius and Albus’s room, and much larger too, but it was still an ordinary bedroom. With only one bed.

“Why’s there only one bed?” Scorpius asked.

“Uh, dunno. Maybe they transfigure a spare one every night?”

“No, I don’t think so, because look...” He pointed at the bedside tables, one with his Dad’s night light and a paperback, the other with a Quidditch magazine and a half-drunk glass of water, and the two sets of pyjamas, one folded neatly on the pillow, the other scrunched up and sort of abandoned on the edge of the bed. “There are clearly two people sleeping in that bed.”

“Huh, weird.” Albus pushed the door shut and locked it.

“Weird? Is that all you have to say? Albus, our dads are sharing a bed! Do you—” He quickly scanned the room, checking that there was absolutely no sign of Mr Potter or his dad about to jump out and surprise them, dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you think they might actually, you know. Be friends now?”

“Oh, uh. I dunno.” Albus scrunched his nose, an adorable frown lining his forehead. “I guess they could be, but can you honestly see it?” 

“Hmm, I suppose not. Can you imagine if they really _did_ become friends? I wonder what they’d talk about.”

“They’d probably bond over their mutual hatred of each other. Can we not talk about my dad anymore?” Albus waved a hand dismissively. “Come on, the hot tub’s through here.” He took Scorpius by the hand and lead him to the French windows, shutting down all further talk of fathers and unlikely friendships.

The view across the valley as the doors swung open was spectacular, but Scorpius couldn’t spare it more than a glance. He was completely captivated by the bubbling water of the hot tub. It was lit by softly glowing orbs, and a delicate lavender-scented steam rose from its surface. He wondered if it was just left on permanently or if Lorenzo had known this was where they were headed and turned it on for them. He thought he’d rather the former than the latter, even if it seemed terribly wasteful. Would Lorenzo tell on them to Mr Potter…?

“You get started, I’m just going to set up a proximity charm on the door so we get a bit of warning if our dads show up.”

“Oh! Good idea.” Scorpius watched him head back into the bedroom. If anyone came within a couple of metres of the door, Albus’s wand would vibrate and the tip would glow a bright white. Some of Scorpius’s tension dropped from his shoulders. He hadn’t realised how worried he’d been by the thought of them getting caught—not that they were planning on doing anything untoward, he reminded himself. They were just two friends enjoying a hot tub together. A perfectly normal activity for friends to do. Just because Albus was his _boy_friend, and it would be the first time they had done anything like this… 

With another look over his shoulder, Scorpius tugged off his jumper, tossing it over a patio chair, and then pulled off his socks. The frigid air immediately nipped at his bare skin, the flimsy t-shirt doing nothing to shield him from the cold. He wrapped his arms around himself. What was taking Albus so long? He wished they’d gone over some ground rules before coming up here. He had no idea how naked he was supposed to get. Was it a pants and t-shirt thing? Or a completely naked thing? How did one even typically use a hot tub? He’d never been in one before! This was all becoming very stressful. Trousers were obviously a no. He could take his trousers off, then maybe Albus would be done with securing the room and he could follow his lead. 

His hands were shaking, a combination of cold and nerves, as he unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers to the floor. Merlin, but it was _freezing._ Why were they doing this? He stepped out of the fabric pooled around his ankles and shuffled closer to the tub. And then suddenly the cold was gone. It was like stepping into a pocket of warmth. It wasn’t too warm, but the icy gusts of air were gone and the edge had been taken off the cold. He kicked himself. Of course an outdoor hot tub in a wizarding property would have a charm to protect them from the elements. Feeling much better about the situation, Scorpius whipped off his t-shirt before he could over-think it any more and stepped into the steaming water.

“Oh sweet Merlin, this is bliss,” he murmured, his eyes slipping shut as he lowered himself into the water and sunk up to his chin. Jets of bubbles massaged muscles that were sore from two days on the slopes and the soothing scent of lavender washed away all lingering worries.

“Good, right?”

Scorpius flicked his eyes open and found Albus leaning against the door frame, watching him, his gaze as hot as the water Scorpius was submerged in. Heat flared in his cheeks. “It’s not bad,” he said, raising his chin out of the water to answer before sinking a little deeper into the water, bubbles tickling his lips and nose. 

Albus smiled and shook his head, then stepped forward. He’d already taken off his hoodie and socks, and Scorpius watched him closely as he approached. He could see his own t-shirt, dangling off the back of a chair where he’d chucked it. Would Albus take off his t-shirt too? He really hoped he’d at least remove his jeans because Scorpius would feel completely ridiculous if Albus climbed in practically fully clothed while he was lounging around in his pants.

He held his breath as Albus’s hands—hands that were trembling as much as Scorpius’s had been—went to his flies and fumbled with the button of his jeans. Slowly, slowly he pushed the jeans down, stumbling a little as he kicked them off his feet.

With his trousers discarded to the side, Albus looked up, finally meeting Scorpius’s eye again. He smiled, smaller this time, nervous, his fingers toying the hem of his t-shirt. Scorpius couldn’t take his eyes off him. He watched, enraptured by the sight of Albus standing there in just his t-shirt and pants, the bottom of his stripy boxers poking out beneath his t-shirt. His legs were skinny, fuzzed with dark hair. The knees, knobbly and scarred from a childhood spent trying to keep up with his older brother. The moment between them stretched taut. Scorpius remained submerged. He wanted to see if Albus would take off his shirt unprompted. Thought it might give him a clue as to what his expectations were once they were both in the hot tub together. After what Albus had said in his letters before Christmas, Scorpius had been expecting him to be a little more… proactive, he supposed. Especially with them sharing a room. But after two nights, they'd still done nothing more than a bit of cuddling, kissing, and some light frotting. It was just the same as being back at school! He tried not to let it worry him. He knew Albus was intensely secretive with his emotions—frustratingly so sometimes—and the last thing Scorpius wanted to do was pressure Albus into moving faster than he was comfortable with… but the thing was, he _knew_ Albus wanted to do _stuff._ They’d spoken about it, in that roundabout way where neither of them said the words they meant, but… but they both understood, and that was the important thing. They’d both been waiting for time alone in order to progress to more… naked activities, and now they actually had that time alone, Scorpius had had high hopes. He just wanted to see his boyfriend naked—was that too much to ask?

“So…um. Should I take this off or…?” Albus asked, plucking at the edge of his shirt.

Scorpius sat up so quickly, water sloshed over the sides of the hot tub. “Sweet Circe’s tits, yes. Off. Now. Then come here. Or are you waiting for our dads to come back so you can have an audience?”

Albus blinked and then snorted out a surprised laugh. “Alright, keep your knickers on.” He tugged the t-shirt over his head, making his hair poke out in all different directions, and then stood there, t-shirt bunched in his hands, shivering as he stared back at Scorpius. 

Scorpius was trembling with excitement because this was Albus, his boyfriend, about to get into a hot tub with him wearing nothing but his pants! They'd never done anything like this before, never really had the opportunity. Albus had always said it was because he wanted to be able to take his time getting to know Scorpius's body—he didn't want a rushed fumble in the dark. But Scorpius knew that in reality, it was largely because he was so terrified about getting found out. And Scorpius was okay with that! He didn’t care that his boyfriend was so worried about what other people thought, that he always put a stop to things before they went too far, or that he would leap away as if burnt every time Scorpius got a bit too close when they were in public. He honestly didn’t care. Much. Not really, anyway. And he loved that Albus wanted to make their first time special… but Scorpius was eager to move beyond kissing and the odd spot of frotting or an occasional handjob. Each precious moment of Albus's hand on his dick was burned into his memory and replayed over and over when he was alone (and occasionally when he wasn't, to his intense embarrassment). The little sounds Albus would make as Scorpius ground against him, desperate to stay quiet but unable to muffle himself completely, would echo in his head for days. 

Now, though. Now it seemed like things might actually be happening and it was all he could do to stop himself leaping out of the water and manhandling Albus into the hot tub.

“Anytime this evening would be good, Albus,” Scorpius said, when Albus seemed unwilling to move any closer. “I’m not going to bite.”

Albus dragged his eyes from Scorpius’s chest and smirked; the sight sent a wave of desire through Scorpius. “Shame,” he muttered.

A gasp tore itself from Scorpius’s throat as Albus prowled—and there really was no better word for it—to the edge of the hot tub and sunk into the water because _where had that sudden burst of confidence come from?_

Scorpius smiled at him. “Hi.” He smothered an unintended a giggle with a wet hand. Merlin, was he five? Why was he so nervous?

“Hi.” 

They were sat side-by-side, but the distance, small though it was, felt too great. Scorpius wasn’t sure what was going to happen, or what he even wanted to happen, but he knew he wanted them to be closer, so he shuffled along the ledge until his leg and arm brushed up against Albus’s. He watched carefully for any flinch that might indicate Albus was about to flee, but he held himself perfectly still.

Scorpius watched the bubbles break the surface of the water, watched the steam dancing over the surface and coming off his flushed arms. It was hot, but not uncomfortably so. He thought perhaps he should try relaxing, but his body wouldn’t comply. He couldn’t focus on anything except the feeling of Albus against his skin. He’d never been so close to someone when wet—not since he’d been old enough to bath himself. It was a strange feeling, but good strange. Wet. Kind of slippery. Hot, very hot. He was scared to move in case Albus thought he was trying it on and he knew they should probably talk about expectations and what have you, but he couldn’t think of any way to bring it up. _Are we expected to touch each other’s cocks?_ felt a little blunt, and Scorpius thought a more natural progression into certain activities would be preferable, but how did one encourage such thing _to_ progress?

“Well, this is nice,” Scorpius said without looking around. “Very… wet.” He swished his hand through the water.

“Yeah. Wet,” Albus agreed. “And warm.”

“Indeed.” Scorpius puffed his cheeks out and exhaled. He desperately wanted Albus to do something. Was it too much to ask for a clear, unambiguous sign that yes, Albus was interested in more than just having a soak beside his boyfriend? He was never this uncertain when they were in his bed back at Hogwarts (it was the furthest from their dorm mates, so much more preferable for any sort of stealth frotting), but the wetness and the nakedness had stripped away the small amount of self-confidence he’d possessed. 

“I really want to kiss you. Can I kiss you? Is that okay?” Albus asked.

And there is was. A sign! Well, more of an announcement. A direct statement of intent. It was exactly what he’d been waiting for, all these achingly tense minutes, slowly boiling alive, extremities turning shrivelled and prune-like—

“Scorp?”

“Oh! Yes. One hundred percent yes. You need never ask—I’ll always want to kiss you, Al. Even if you’d spent the afternoon snacking on onions. Even if—mmph!” Scorpius suddenly found himself with a lap full of Albus, the press of lips stifling whatever he’d been about to say next. What _had_ he been about to say? He didn’t care. Nothing mattered. He had Albus on his lap, Albus’s lips on his, Albus’s… _Well, if any other sign were needed, here it was._ He pulled back from the kiss. Smirked. “Hello, there.” 

Albus snorted and dropped his head to Scorpius’s shoulder. “Oh, give over Scorp. You really don’t have to say hi every time my dick makes an appearance.”

“It’s only polite, Albus. Besides, I want the little chap to feel welcome.” He ran his hands along Albus’s thighs underneath the water, delighting in the feel of the coarse hairs bristling under his fingers. 

Albus’s body was firm and solid above him, his erection nudging against his stomach as he shifted his weight, a teasing brush against his own. A hot breath caressed Scorpius’s neck, a catch of teeth on skin, and he shivered, buried his face in thick black hair, breathing in cherry shampoo and woodsmoke and _Albus_. Scorpius slid his hands up further, his fingers catching on the edges of Albus’s boxers. A moment’s indecision, then he slipped his hands beneath the material as far as it would allow. He felt the curve as leg became arse and groaned as Albus pressed closer, the teasing pressure on his erection increasing as it strained against his sodden pants, trapped between them.

Scorpius ground up, pulling Albus in closer, nosed at his cheek until he turned and Scorpius could claim his lips again. A water jet bubbled just beneath him, tickling the backs of his thighs distractingly, and he widened his legs, delighting as the bubbles grazed the sensitive skin behind his balls. He groaned, guttural, urgent, Albus’s name in his throat, in his head, filling every thought, surrounding him, crowding him against the hot tub. He’d never felt so thoroughly engulfed by anyone. Nothing they’d done so far even compared. It was wonderful, just the feel of Albus’s hot skin beneath his fingertips, nothing between them but the flimsy cloth of their underpants.

The water churned and bubbled around them, the air thick with lavender-scented steam, their slick bodies writhing, sliding against each other. Scorpius wished they were naked, wanted to feel all of Albus against him, but that would mean Albus leaving his lap and he definitely didn’t want that. Next time, maybe. He’d suggest it when they weren’t so preoccupied. Albus pulled back slightly, studying Scorpius’s face. His lips were dark pink and swollen, his eyes glimmering in the light from the bedroom. 

“Can I—?” He pushed a hand between them, brushed his knuckles against Scorpius’s length, tugged at the waistband of his pants.

Scorpius whimpered. Nodded frantically. “Oh, gods yes. Merlin, Albus, please, just… I… I need…” He freed his hands from Albus’s pants and ran them up his back to grip onto his shoulders as Albus’s fingers curled around his dick. He thrust up, rough and urgent, into the circle of Albus’s fist, his body arched, seeking more contact, needing something to take the teasing edge off their movements, his nails digging into Albus’s soft skin. Merlin, but how he never wanted this moment to end. He felt like every nerve ending was alight with pleasure. 

But then Albus stilled, his body rigid. A noise like a strangled Kneazle falling from his lips. Scorpius juddered to a halt, chest heaving, dick painfully hard in Albus’s motionless hand. He frowned, his thoughts sluggish and muddled because that wasn’t Albus’s usual orgasm noise. And he didn’t have that boneless, sated look about him; he wasn’t staring blissfully at Scorpius with a giddy, half-drunk grin on his face. In fact, he looked like he’d forgotten that Scorpius was there, even as his hand was curled limply around him. No, his attention was completely focused on something behind Scorpius and his kiss-swollen lips were hanging open, a look of abject horror in his eyes. What on earth was going on? 

_Oh fuck._

Time froze. Scorpius knew. 

_Merlin’s fucking arse titting balls._

He turned, bile rising in his throat because oh no oh no oh no _this could not be happening._

His dad and Mr Potter were standing in the middle of the bedroom, staring at them with twin looks of horror.

“What the ever-loving FUCK is going on?! OUR HOT TUB!”

“Are they— No. No no no. Please, tell me this isn’t what it looks like. _Please._ Scorpius!?”

“Dad!” Scorpius squeaked. He made to stand up, but at the last minute recalled his current state of attire, remembered that his pants were hooked beneath his rapidly softening dick, and hurriedly sunk back into the water. Albus was thrown off his lap by the motion and fell backwards into the water, spluttering, trying to cover himself up and not drown at the same time. 

Mr Potter covered his face with his hands, whereas Scorpius’s dad stared furiously at the ceiling, his pale cheeks blotchy and reddened.

“Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, you get out of that hot tub this instant,” his dad snapped without taking his eyes off the ceiling.

“You too, Albus,” Mr Potter added. “You’d better have a bloody good explanation for this.”

“I… I’d really rather not get out, if it’s all the same to you. Not right now, anyway,” Scorpius said. He wished he knew where his wand had ended up, because then he could Apparate somewhere far away and live out the rest of his life as a sex-less hermit. He could see Albus’s wand, glowing and vibrating under the pile of Albus’s clothes. So much for a proximity charm.

“You said you’d be out all evening!” Albus protested, saving Scorpius the indignity of having to explain that he’d rather not flash Mr Potter his cock.

“And you took that to mean you could—” Mr Potter shook his head. “No, I can’t say it. Just… put some bloody clothes on, the pair of you!”

“Hey, what’s going on?” James asked, bursting into the room with everyone else trailing behind. It would have been funny, the way their faces simultaneously passed through the same stages of curiosity, confusion, realisation, and then finally, amusement, if Scorpius hadn’t been experiencing a slow, painful death through mortification. He hid his face in his hands and willed the world to stop. He’d never be able to smell lavender again without reliving this horrific night. 

“Explains why they were so keen to share a room, at least,” Lily said.

“Oh my god! Right, everyone who is not currently naked, out!” Mr Potter pointed to the door and they reluctantly shuffled back out into the hall, sniggering and, in one case, wolf-whistling.

“Right. You two. How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d known— Oh my god— You deliberately deceived me so I’d let you share a room!”

“It’s not always about you, Dad,” Albus grumbled. “Just because we don’t publish our private life in the _Prophet.”_ Scorpius winced. Now was not the time to be antagonising their parents.

“That’s enough! Right, Albus, you’re sharing with me from now on, Scorpius, you’re with Draco.”

“What? That’s so unfair!”

“Harry, let’s not be too hasty.” Scorpius pried his fingers from his eyes and gaped at his dad. Was he really coming to their defence? “I’m sure the embarrassment of being caught _in flagrante delicto_ by their fathers is punishment enough, don’t you think? I doubt they’ll be doing anything inappropriate again, isn’t that right boys?”

Scorpius nodded his head. “Yes, definitely. Consider the lesson well and truly learnt. Wizard scouts honour!” He kicked Albus under the water and Abus hastily nodded his agreement too.

“They’re teenage boys! Of course they’re going to do something inappropriate. Don’t you remember what it was like?”

A look of revulsion flashed across Albus’s face but thankfully he held his tongue.

“Yes,” Scorpius’s dad hissed. “But I think we can trust them.” 

Scorpius frowned. There was an odd tone to his dad’s voice, like he was trying to convey meaning beyond the words. Scorpius’s gaze flicked between his dad and Mr Potter, who appeared to be having a whole conversation with just a few quirked eyebrows and head tilts. Scorpius held his breath, awaiting their fate.

“Fine,” Mr Potter muttered, and three sets of shoulders loosened. “I suppose I have no option but to trust you both to behave yourselves. But—” He jabbed a stern finger at Albus, then Scorpius, “—there will be random inspections, so don’t do anything you wouldn’t want your dads to walk in on. Again. And this hot tub—no, this _entire room_—is off-limits, okay?”

“Thank you, Mr Potter! I assure you, there will be no more incidents. We’ll even leave our bedroom door open. You’re free to wander in whenever you please, stay for a chat or—”

“Scorp!” Albus yelped.

“Just— Just get dressed and go downstairs. I need to lie down,” Mr Potter said, exhaling dramatically and dragging a hand through his hair.

Scorpius smiled faintly at his dad, who just shook his head fondly, his lips pursed together as if suppressing a smile. He withdrew into the bedroom with Mr Potter and they drew the curtains to the balcony, giving Scorpius and Albus the privacy to get dressed.

“Well, that was bracing,” Scorpius muttered as he cast a drying charm on his pants.

He looked up at Albus, who was struggling into his jeans with damp legs, and as he caught his eye, he was overtaken by a fit of giggles. After a brief moment, Albus joined him, laughing until they were both breathless, tears streaming down their cheeks.

“Oh god,” Albus moaned once he’d recovered. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my whole life. Kill me now.”

“Merlin, I know. I thought I was actually going to spontaneously combust.” Scorpius laughed again. There was really nothing else he could do. He’d never be able to look his father or Mr Potter in the eye again. Or any of Albus’s family for that matter. Merlin’s tits. What had they done? “At least this resolves the issue of coming out to them.”

“I would have rather lived the rest of my life hiding this than have our dads walk in on us. Fuck.”

“It wasn’t exactly ideal, was it?”

“All things considered, I can think of literally thousands of ways we could have told them better. Ways that didn’t involve my naked arse.”

Scorpius snorted. “It was fun though, right?” he asked a little uncertainly. “Up until we were interrupted, I mean.”

Albus looked at him, his green eyes soft, fond. “Yeah, it was fun. We should definitely do it again sometime.”

“Oh, for sure.” Scorpius reached out and gently poked the dimple in Albus’s cheek. “Maybe not anywhere with an audience next time, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Albus grabbed his hand and entwined their fingers, then brought Scorpius’s hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss across his knuckles. “Come on, we should go before my dad gets twitchy and comes to check we’re not fucking against the window or something.”

“Perish the thought!”

Yes, it wasn’t ideal. And yes, he was quite sure he’d never live down the embarrassment, but as he followed Albus out of their dads’ room, head ducked to avoid meeting anyone’s eye, Scorpius realised he felt lighter, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Their secret was out—they no longer had to hide what they meant to each other—and he couldn’t wait to move on with this new phase in their relationship.

*

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Scorpius looked up from the tray of pastries he was assembling in the kitchen (with Lorenzo’s help) to find Albus watching him from across the breakfast bar. He was still in his pyjamas—soft, plaid trousers that were almost worn through at the knees and stopped just above his ankles, and an oversized Slytherin t-shirt that hung off one shoulder—and his hair was sticking out in all directions. Albus rubbed his eyes and yawned widely, looking so deliciously soft and sleepy that Scorpius wanted to stop what he was doing and bury himself in his arms. And the wonderful thing was, he could if he wanted, now they were not-so-secret boyfriends. He smiled to himself, warmth filling his body, spreading out from his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes. But he mustn’t let himself get distracted. He had a plan. A very important plan that would go a long way to fixing everything. 

“Scorp?” Albus plonked sleepily onto a stool.

“Oh! Well, I was thinking, last night, after all the, um, kerfuffle with the hot tub. We need to make it up to our fathers, because no matter how horrifying it was for us, it must have been ten times worse for them, right?”

“Uh, no? How was it worse for them? I pretty much flashed my knob at my boyfriend’s dad! He’s seen my… my _sex face._” Albus hid his face in his hands and groaned.

Scorpius tried to stop the grin before it spread across his face, tried to stop the giggle bubbling out of his mouth, but it was useless.

“What?” Albus asked, looking up at the sound of Scorpius’s smothered giggle.

“Sorry! I just love it when you call me your boyfriend. Isn’t it great we don’t have to hide it anymore?”

Albus scowled, but then the corner of his mouth ticked up, the dimples made a reluctant appearance, and a beautiful flushed tinted his cheeks. He shrugged. “It’s okay, I suppose. Are you going to tell me why we’re up at the arse crack of dawn instead of together in my bed?”

Now it was Scorpius’s turn to blush, the implication of just what they could be doing in bed together right now hanging heavily between them. They both knew there was no way either of their dads would risk bursting in on them now without sufficient warning, despite what Mr Potter had threatened last night…

“Stop distracting me, you beast!” Scorpius tore off the end of a croissant he’d been nibbling and threw it at Albus. “So, anyway, I thought we could bring our dads breakfast in bed to show that we’re responsible young adults and that we’re sorry for what happened.”

“You really think that’ll work?”

“No idea, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Albus shrugged and snatched a cinnamon whirl from the tray. “If you say so.”

With the tray laden with pastries, a cafetiere, and two mugs, they trudged up the stairs towards the master bedroom. Scorpius opted to carry the tray rather than risk levitating it—his magic always went a bit flaky when he was nervous and he didn’t want to levitate the tray into a wall or have it go crashing to the ground if the spell failed. He kept his ears pricked for sounds of movement from anyone else in the chalet, but it was deathly quiet. Peaceful. He reminded himself that it was still early, though. He’d still be asleep himself if he’d been able to silence his mind for more than a few minutes at a time. Hopefully, his dad and Mr Potter would appreciate the gesture of breakfast in bed. He couldn’t bear the thought that his dad might be disappointed in him, and he definitely didn’t want Mr Potter’s lasting impression to be an image of Scorpius defiling his son. Sweet Circe, no. Damage control, that’s what was required.

Heart in his throat, sweaty palms clasped around the edges of the tray, Scorpius glanced over his shoulder for reassurance from Albus.

“You need me to knock?” Albus whispered, one hand gently rested on Scorpius’s lower back.

Scorpius looked at the door, then at the tray in his hands, then back at Albus, smiling shyly. “Would you? Only my hands are a little busy.”

Albus stretched passed him and gave the door three short, sharp raps. 

Nothing. 

Scorpius frowned and leant in towards the door, getting his ear as close as possible to the knotted wooden surface without upsetting the contents of the tray.

“They’re probably asleep. We should come back later or just leave the tray here,” Albus suggested.

“Father always gets up at six am—he must be awake,” Scorpius insisted.

“I dunno, then. Maybe he’s in the shower?”

“I can’t hear anything, though. If he was showering, we’d hear the hot water.” Scorpius paused, his mind frantically cycling through all possible reasons for the lack of response. “What if something terrible has happened? Oh, Merlin, something _must_ have happened. What should we do?”

Albus rolled his eyes. “Calm down, Scorp. He’s probably just taking a dump. I don’t know. Can we please go back to bed now?”

“In a sec. Could you just try the handle? Please…?”

“Scorp, I’m not breaking into my dad’s room again. He’s probably still mad from last night! We should give it at least a few days before deliberately pissing him off.”

“It’s not breaking in if the door is unlocked. What if something’s wrong? It’s too quiet. Just… just try the handle and if it’s open, we take a peek inside. If not… then I suppose we can go away and come back in… five minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes, at least. And fine.” Albus rolled his eyes and wrapped his hand around the door handle. He gave it a little twist, left, right. Left, right, and there was a barely audible click. 

Scorpius beamed at Albus. He opened his mouth to say something along the lines of _I told you so,_ but at that moment, Albus pushed the door open and whatever charm that had been trapping the noise inside the room broke. 

The smile froze on Scorpius’s face as first his ears were assaulted by the rhythmic thud of a heavy wooden bed frame bashing into a wooden wall, and then his eyes… Dear sweet Merlin, his eyes. His dad and Mr Potter were both very naked, very entangled, and very… busy. There was absolutely no mistaking what was going on, but even so, Scorpius was vaguely aware of his mouth moving and the words “What in Hades is happening?” spilling out.

“What the fuck, Dad!” Albus yelled.

“Shit, boys— what… What are you doing here?” Mr Potter cried, grabbing a pillow and holding in front of his groin, then shoving another at Scorpius’s dad.

There was a crash, broken china and glass skittering across the floor, a puddle of black coffee spreading wider, soaking into the pastries and the artfully placed fur rugs. All eyes turned to Scorpius and for a split second he wondered why, until he felt the hot coffee seeping into his socks and realised he’d dropped the breakfast tray to the floor. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” he muttered, over and over until he felt someone tugging at his arm. Albus. Sweet, beautiful Albus. He let his boyfriend drag him down the stairs, not even pausing to shut the door in their haste. 

“At least we’re even now,” Albus said after throwing himself onto the lower bunk in their room. He huffed out a laugh and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“There is that, I suppose,” Scorpius replied weakly. He had no idea what to do with himself—too antsy to lie next to Albus or sit down—so he paced the room, pillow hugged to his chest as he rubbed his fingers over his lips. Merlin, but he’d never be able to shift the image of his dad and Mr Potter, naked. No one, not a soul, should have to see their boyfriend’s dad doing what he just witnessed Mr Potter doing to his dad. His dad and Mr Potter! How long…? Suddenly, the random invitation for a ski holiday made a lot more sense. Had it all been an act? The awkwardness, the sitting at opposite ends of a table, the bickering…

“Hey, did you know your dad has a tattoo of a snitch on his arse?” Albus asked.

“I…what? No! Why on earth were you looking at my dad’s arse?”

“It was that or look at _my_ dad’s arse. Ew, no thanks. Besides, your dad’s not too bad looking for an old guy.”

“Albus! _Please.”_ Scorpius groaned and smothered his face with the pillow. “How about we just agree to never speak of this, or last night, again.”

“Fine with me.”

Scorpius chuckled, a short frantic burst of laughter that turned into another pained groan. He supposed he ought to get used to weird things like this happening; he was dating a Potter after all. As was his father, apparently.

*

_LILY LUNA_

Lily sat at the counter and watched her family and the Malfoys graze on the spread Lorenzo had provided for breakfast. They were all up later than usual thanks to the excitement last night, not that she was complaining. She’d known there was _something_ going on between Albus and Scorpius for ages—those two were about as subtle as an Erumpent tip-toeing through Madam Puddifoots—so it wasn’t too surprising that they were caught doing naked stuff in her dad’s hot tub. What _was_ surprising, though, was the gossip she’d gleaned from James just that morning. She had no idea how _he’d_ found out, and hadn’t believed it for a second, until she’d come down for breakfast and found Al and Scorpius at one end of the table, and her dad and Draco at the other, everyone studiously avoiding looking at everyone else, awkwardness radiating off them in waves. It was hilarious. She looked down at the blank postcard and grabbed a pen from the pot beside her.

_Hi Mum,_

_Do you remember how you said it wouldn’t be a dull trip with Dad and Mr Malfoy? Well, you’ll never believe what’s happened—and you’d better make sure you’re sitting down for this—but…_

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coriesocks) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/coriesocks) @coriesocks <3


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